The Shadow Queen
by INSANITY - BRILLIANCE
Summary: The world consists of two things: Light and Objects. Light passes through everything but objects. Objects block the light and in their wake they leave shadows. But shadows don't exist. They are tricks—illusions of the light and object. It showed me the truth. I am a shadow. We are all shadows. Life is nothing more or less than what you choose to see. (Dark Sansa/reincarnation au)
1. Protagonist I

**Prologue  
_Meet Terry_  
**

* * *

I'll be the first to admit that I'm not a perfect person. I have a rather twisted personality and I can be vindictive, resentful, and altogether a wrathful and unforgiving soul. My views on morality are skewed at best. At worst I am a borderline sociopath with little to no sympathy for the plight of others. That being said, at least I was better than the piece of human excrement sitting beside me in court today.

Charles Humphries Junior, or CJ as he preferred to be called, was a real piece of work. He easily encompassed everything that I disliked about the upper class: spoiled, cowardly, and obnoxiously full of himself in spite of having nothing to boast about that wasn't coasting on the coattails of his father's political accomplishments. His one redeeming quality was that he was a salesman at heart, silver-tongued and outwardly charming as they come. It was too bad he failed to properly utilize his talents by spending more time with his fraternity brothers throwing house parties than in the classroom. Perhaps had he spent more time in class, he may have learned a thing or two about dealing narcotics without being caught. Rule number one of being a drug dealer: Don't partake of your own stash. Rule number two should've been: Don't deal with rapists. It was only a matter of time before he was also implicated in their crimes and accused of assaulting those girls as well.

There were three of them. All of them minors. Each one drugged and raped by multiple assailants. And, of course, he was guilty. I knew it. He knew it. His Senator father knew it too.

You might be wondering how I could possibly defend someone who I knew as guilty? I suppose for the average individual it would be quite the moral dilemma...however if you want to be a great lawyer, or at the very least a competent one, you had to let go of such ideas of morality. As long as I was being paid, it didn't matter to me whether or not my client was guilty. If a client stood accused of killing my own father, I wouldn't have cared any more than I do now. Why? Because I'm a professional. And besides, the man would've deserved it. Whether or not this makes me a good person is debatable. I'm sure to many I'm wholly detestable. Yet I personally never espouse to the idea that you're an evil person if you ignore people doing evil things. If anything you're simply inactive, a third-party observer, a conscientious objector. Do you punish people who merely watch terrible things on the news and do nothing to stop them? Of course not. So why condemn a lawyer for doing their job—let alone doing their job well?

Waiting for the jury's verdict was nothing more than a formality. The evidence convicting CJ of any of the assault crimes was circumstantial at best. He was smart enough to know how to use a condom. And the girls were too incapacitated to identify him. He was only implicated at all because a witness saw him dealing at the party that the three girls had crashed. But without any clear testimony from any of the girls and none of his fraternity brothers' contradicting stories, no one could place him with them at the time when the assault took place. Only the sixty-second video clip of the assaults placed CJ at the scene and that clip was deleted—I made sure of it.

In order to climb to the top, there had to be a few innocent bystanders as casualties. This case was a means to an end. Nothing more, nothing less. The goal, of course, being appointed to partner at the largest and influential law firm in the country. In time, I would get there and then it would be a straight shot from there to Attorney General, then the Supreme Court.

I knew better than to think that it would be that easy. But it was a step in the right direction. The verdict on the assault charges came back as I predicted, however, because CJ was only found with small amounts of heroin, and this was only his first offense, he able to scrape by with a conditional discharge. Not everyone was happy with that decision.

"This is outrageous!" A young man jumped up from the prosecutor's side. I recognized his mop of brown shaggy hair and freckled complexion. It was the brother of one of the victims, Stacy Meyers. His name was Stephen or Steven—or maybe Stewart? "He did it! He did it!"

"Young man! I will not have you creating a scene in my courtroom. Contain yourself or I'll have you held in contempt," The judge boomed back.

Beside him, his sister, a frail timid little thing, put her hands on his arm. "Steven quiet," she said. "You're not helping anything." He looked at her again then at the judge before grudgingly taking his seat again.

Good. Listen to your sister boy. She's the smart one here. The judge banged his gavel, dismissing the court. Charles Humphries Senior looked somewhat displeased when CJ stood up from his seat. "Hopefully this experience has taught you something," he said.

"It has…"

"Good."

The Senator was far too lenient. It was bound to bite him in the ass during his reelection. "Thank you for all your hard work." He addressed me now and I nodded.

"Of course, Senator Humphries. It's my job."

We shook hands; first, the father, then the son and they left soon after. I proceeded to gather up all my materials. It was good it was over and done with. I was growing bored with this case and these people. But now I had a state senator who owed me a favor. Favors were such useful things. More so than money. A favor from the right person at the right time had the power to tilt the scales to your advantage.

As I left, Steven Meyers was staring at me, his expression contemptuous. Hopefully, he doesn't do anything reckless. Most people would behave rationally in this scenario—most people, but not all. Rationalism and pragmatism are not the only things that drive human action. At our core, we are all still beasts—slaves to our baser instincts—without care for logic. No matter how much we believe we've modernized, no matter what social constructs we pledge to live by, humans will continue to prioritize emotion over logic. When a human being is overcome with hatred they'll say things, do things, without any concern for self-interest of reason regardless of what they might stand to gain or lose. I saw that hatred in his eyes. There was no doubting it, he blamed me.

Like I said before, I am a heartless bastard. No doubt about it. Love me or hate me, the only thing that matters is that I win.

Should've known better…

Steven was the type of person who acts on his emotions and takes revenge. Two months later, while awaiting the light rail that would take me back home, Steven—the impulsive child— shoved me off the platform.

His face looked as it did then—twisted, distorted into something animalistic, his hatred turning him rabid. I couldn't look away. The image was so visceral that the moment before I hit the tracks seemed to stretch for an eternity. They say when you die your life flashes before your eyes. That's a lie. When you're in your final moments, there is no light at the end of the tunnel, there is only you—frozen, suspended at that moment, falling to your death.

"This is getting very tiresome."

Who said that?

I looked away boy's face to the light rail operator. Through the glass of the windshield, his face was somber and expressionless. Were his lips moving or did I imagine it?

"Humans think they're all-knowing but they've lost sight of what's right and what's wrong."

No, I'm certain didn't imagine it.

"They think the laws of the universe don't apply to them."

What is this man prattling on about?

"Humans no longer empathize with others and they've renounced their faith in their mighty creator."

A creator? This is a bad joke, right?

"This is no joke," the light rail operator glowered at me.

You're asking me to believe that not only is god a real entity but that he also happened to stop time at the moment before my death in order to speak to me through a balding, overweight, middle-aged light rail operator?

"That's correct."

Bullshit. This is some kind of near-death hallucination. I'm an atheist. I don't believe in God. I believe in logic and reason. Besides, why should I trust you? Aren't God and the devil supposed to inhabit the spiritual world? Hypothetically, if a god did exist I doubt he'd do anything this absurd to get a point across. So you must be someone else…

"Like the devil?"

Or perhaps something similar. I caught sight of the man's name tag. "I think I'll call you Terry."

"You really don't want to believe? Even when a miracle is happening right in front of your eyes?"

This isn't the time to lecture me on my lack of faith. Besides, I'm a bureaucrat—if you wanted to get my attention, you should've filed a subpoena. Perhaps then I would've taken you more seriously.

Terry's eyes narrowed. "As the being that controls the cycle of reincarnation, there are firm rules I abide by. However, I'll make an exception for you."

Wait. Hold on. Did you say reincarnation? You mean after we die, we're born again?

"That's no longer your concern," Terry said.

No—wait! Are you not familiar with the principle of full disclosure? Also if you're really a god, shouldn't you hold to your own rules and avoid heat-of-the-moment decisions?

"I manage over seven billion people on this planet," Terry sighed. "I'm completely overworked as it is. Honestly, reincarnating people without any faith is a waste of my time."

I hate to tell you this but being overworked is a sign of a flawed business model. You've failed to sufficiently analyze your clients' needs. Of course, there is no faith in a world full of advanced science where almost everyone's core needs are met. Here you only matter to the weak and desperate who look to someone to cling to when times get hard. An individual like me would never need you.

Terry hummed introspectively. "So you're saying you have no faith because of the world you are in, all your needs are met here through technology, you have a high social class, and you've never been put in dire straights?"

Umm...well, technically—But hold on, I think you're getting the wrong idea—

"What if I put you in dire straights? Do you think then your faith in me will be awakened?"

I don't like where this is going—Hold on! Let's not be hasty now. I don't want to break any rules about reincarnation or whatever you said.

"Try to survive as long as you can."

Wait!

"If you die again—"

Nonononono—

"—There will be no further reincarnations for you—"

_Wait! Wait! I said— _

"Good luck."

_No!_


	2. Sansa I

**Sansa I  
_The Delusion Begins_**

* * *

There are times that it feels like a dream. That memory, both so visceral and so distant… There are times I forget that I don't belong here.

"Fine work as always. Well done!" Septa Mordane knelt before me to admire the needlework in my hands, temporarily distracting me. She traced a wrinkled finger over the stitching of vines with a smile. "I love the detail that you've managed to get with these flowers," she said.

I smiled back and tried, as best I could, to look modest. "Thank you. But I fear that the colors are off. I ran out of the thread I was using before and the one I'm using now doesn't quite match up."

She shook her head causing the ends of her white headdress to rustle. "No, no. I can barely notice it," she assured me. The old crone smiled again before she stood and retook her seat next to my younger sister, Arya. My Septa was a kind, simple-minded old woman, strict when need be, but ultimately loyal to my family and house Stark. That's what I was called now. Stark. Sansa Stark of Winterfell to be precise.

After meeting Terry and the subsequent events that followed, I found myself reborn into a Tolkienesque fantasy world set in the middle ages. I was born during the long summer in the Northern territory of a country called Westeros at the castle of Winterfell. I was the eldest daughter of Catelyn Tully of house Stark and Eddard Stark Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I had three brothers—Well, four if you counted Jon Snow, albeit no one ever counted a bastard— Robb, Brandon, and Rickon as well as my little sister, Arya.

And yet, I wasn't convinced this was my new life. Or even a new life at all. What if this was just some near-death hallucination like I said before? What if everything that happened after the split second I was shoved in front that train was just simply the neurons in my brain firing one last time? I must say it seemed a far more reasonable explanation than the alternative. I had trouble believing that if the latter were real, there would be no way Terry would put me in a family with such a high social class. I should've been an orphan born in the gutters, living on the streets, and eating pigeons to survive. He said he would put me in dire straights...and yet I have every modern comfort this world would allow.

Alternately, if this world is imaginary, if I am to believe that I am the only real thing that exists here, then all these people, every single one, is nothing more than a projection of my own subconscious. They are shadows. Shadows have no feelings, no emotions. It was the basic idea of how a narcissist views the world. But am I a narcissist? I wasn't convinced I was. And yet…

Arya sat quietly in her chair, frowning over her needlework. Wisps of brown hair fell on her face as she worked. I knew she would rather be anywhere else. Arya detested needlework and any activity that was befitting a daughter of a Lord. Perhaps that's why the little beast and I didn't get along. I excelled in everything she didn't: reading, writing, singing, dancing, and, of course, needlework. There was also the small fact that Arya and I were constantly compared to one another in regard to our looks. Arya was the ugly one, the plain one, the one who took the most after our father, and, according to the insufferable Jeyne Poole, she had a horse face. Contrariwise, I took after our mother. I heard constantly about how I had the infamous Tully coloring—auburn hair and piercing blue eyes—as well as our mother's high cheekbones. People told me I would grow up to be a beautiful Northern Lady. They never said such things to Arya as far as I knew.

I wonder. Is she a shadow? Does she think as I do? Does she feel as I do? If I stabbed her with this needle would she bleed as I do? I do wonder...

Then there is a third theory that I scarcely want to consider. I am speaking in the case of a Chinese philosopher known as Zhuang Zhou. One day, Zhuang Zhou dreamt he was a butterfly. For hours he fluttered to and fro until he forgot he was Zhuang Zhou. When he awoke he was Zhuang Zhou again, but in that moment he wasn't sure. Was he Zhuang Zhou who dreamt he was a butterfly or, perhaps more frightening still, a butterfly who was dreaming about being Zhuang Zhou? Am I dreaming I'm Sansa Stark? Am I Sansa Stark who dreamt I was someone else?

A delusion starts like any other idea, as an egg. Identical on the outside, perfectly formed. From the shell, you'd never guess anything was amiss and you wouldn't know for sure until the egg was cracked open. It's what's inside the egg that matters. Let's go on a little thought experiment here— One day, Joshua P. was taking a leisurely stroll through a park. As he is walking, he trips over a patch of uneven sidewalk. Logically, he should've assumed he tripped because of the sidewalk and yet, for the briefest moment, he considers that his left leg didn't belong to him.

This is how it beings. The leg was clearly Joshua's. It was attached to his body, and when he pricked it, he felt pain. Yet despite that, the idea grew. Such is the power of an idea. With every day that passed, Joshua became more and more certain that this was not his leg. So logically, he decided he didn't want it anymore and went to the hardware store to buy a saw.

You see, an idea alone isn't enough. People have ideas all the time, random thoughts, and theories. Most of them die before they can grow into anything more. For a delusion to thrive, other, more rational ideas have to thus be rejected. Only then can the delusion blossom.

I felt like I was Sansa Stark. This body moved when I wanted it to. I felt pain when I injured it. And yet, much in the case of Joshua P., there was this idea that this was not my body. I am not Sansa Stark, right? Or am I really Sansa Stark? Was I ever anyone else? Is China even a real place? Was Zhuang Zhou a figment of my imagination? Is this world the real one or the fake one? Is Arya the shadow or am I?

These questions were beginning to churn my stomach. I brought my finger up to my mouth and licked it. It tastes like blood. But is it, though?

"Sansa! You're bleeding," Jeyne yelled out stupidly. Obviously, you daft girl.

I popped my finger out of my mouth and smiled at her. "It's only a little prick," I said. "I'm fine." I then showed her my finger that had already stopped its bleeding.

"You should still have that cleaned and bandaged, Lady Sansa," Septa Mordane urged. She probably right. Knowing me, there's a chance that I'd contract some flesh-eating virus and that would be it. Terry wins two to zero.

I put my needlework aside for now. "You're right Septa. Please excuse me, Jeyne, Sister." Arya rolled her eyes when she was addressed.

"You want me to come with you," Jeyne offered.

Please don't. I can't take any more of your incessant prattle. I shook my head, "No, it's alright. You stay here Jeyne," I said.

"Just go already," Arya glared. Mother could stand to discipline her more. Such blatant insolence was bound to get her in trouble one of these days. It's not like she'd take any lessons from me. Shame.

I turned and left the room without another word. As I walked, my thoughts soon returned back to my previous ponderings. Since I am unable to truly determine what is real and what isn't, I'm left with a bit of a dilemma. I don't want to believe that what happened with Terry happened, but to assume otherwise would put me in a state of cognitive dissonance and dissociation. That being said, to remain in such a state would slowly but surely drive me mad. There's a chance that I already could be mad in my thirteen years in this world. Therefore, in order for me to keep my sanity, or whatever remains of it, I have to accept that there was a malevolent higher being that is pulling all the strings.

It wasn't God. Oh, no. Terry wasn't Jesus. He was something else. Someone far more sinister sent to fuck with me. Well, I welcome him to try. You hear me, Terry. Give it your best shot! At the end of this only one of us will be standing. I don't care if I have to burn down the whole world to get to you, I will. I promise you that.


	3. Sansa II

**Sansa II  
_Best of Friends_**

* * *

"She's so darling," Jeyne cooed crouching down to pet the squirming pup in my arms. Father had just given me this direwolf pup after finding a litter of them in the forest. There were six of them in total, one for each of Eddard Stark's children, including the bastard. I was given one of the females of the litter while Arya had been given the other. My pup was a stormy grey color with beautiful golden eyes. "What's her name?" Jeyne asked.

"She doesn't have one," I told her. I had yet to come up with something appropriate. My siblings had already named their direwolves. Robb's was Greywind, Arya's Nymeria, Bran's Summer, Rickon named his, simply enough, Shaggy Dog, and then there was Ghost the runt of the litter that Jon Snow received. I suppose it was a fitting, Ghost was the only one out of the litter than was pure white, what better to match the name Snow.

"She has to have a name," the girl persisted while I stepped aside her to let the pup run around.

We were in my bedchambers, a place we often retreated to 'play' . Jeyne was the only one who ever played, while I sat and read by the fireplace. We had worked out an arrangement years ago and Jeyne never seemed to mind it. She was allowed to play with all my dolls that went untouched by me. Why my parents kept insisting on buying me dolls, I'd never know. I had stopped playing with them as soon as I had learned to read the common tongue. From that moment on, I always had a book on hand or close by.

I sat down by the hearth and picked up one the tomes on the table there. Jeyne still stood there waiting for me to respond. She had her small hands on the hips of her grey dress and her dark eyes were steely, determined. She wasn't going to let this go. "Alright, then Bones," I said.

"Bones?" Jeyne made a face. "You can't call her Bones."

"Why not? She's my pup. Besides, she seems to like them."

"But that's the name of a boy dog," she argued. "She's a girl. And a direwolf, not some mutt the groundskeeper feeds with kitchen slops. She's the sigil of House Stark and she should have a name befitting a highborn lady—Oh! I know, what if you called her Lady?"

"Lady?" I thought about it. It had potential. It was short. Good for training. Plus it had the added benefit of shutting Jeyne up for the time being. "Alright. That's a better name than Shaggy Dog," I said.

Jeyne beamed widely and I looked away to open my book. You might think that I loathed Jeyne's company, truly I wouldn't blame you, considering how I often think of her. But she's never done me any ill will. I didn't hate her personally. I simply despise children; the irony isn't lost on me having admitted that. My parents tried to force other playmates on me before, however, they were all twice as insufferable as Jeyne. At least Jeyne knew when to speak and when to leave me alone. It made her tolerable, and on the best days, I may be inclined to say I had some affection for her.

"Have you heard the news?"

Of course, that affection quickly ends as soon as she opens her mouth. "What news?"

"You haven't heard?"

There were times it was difficult for me not to look at her like she was stupid. This was one of those times. "I guess not," I said.

"Derek, the kitchen boy, told me that the King is riding for Winterfell," she said as she crossed the room and sat beside me, uninvited. I tried not to let my annoyance show on my face. "He says that Lady Stark is all in a fuss preparing some huge feast."

"Why?"

"For the King and Queen," she said. "I heard he's coming with his entire family. That includes the Princes, Joffery and Tommen, and Princess Myrcella as well as the Queen's brothers."

She misunderstood my question. "No, why is King Robert coming to Winterfell specifically?"

"Oh," Jeyne's expression changed and she frowned, "Jon Aryn died."

"He did? How?"

Jeyne shrugged. "I don't know. He was old," she said.

"What about my aunt Lysa? Is she coming too now that her husband is dead? And is she bringing Robin?"

"Sorry," Jeyne shook her head, "I haven't heard anything about them."

Jon Aryn had been the Hand of the King. In medieval-speak, that meant that he was the one to run the country while King Robert Baratheon drank and whored himself to an early grave. If he died and King Robert decided to come to Winterfell all the way from the capital of King's Landing, then that would mean he is going to ask my father to be his new Hand. King Robert and Eddard Stark had history together. They fought side by side in the Battle of the Trident; went to war to save my aunt Lyanna from Prince Rhaegar. They would've been brothers by marriage had Lyanna not died during Robert's Rebellion. There's no way my father would decline the King's request, not that he could even if he wanted to, and he wouldn't want to not if his friend needed him.

"This will change things."

"How so?" Jeyne looked at me curiously.

"Think Jeyne," I told her. "Why would the King come all this way from King's Landing with such a large entourage after Jon Ayrn died?"

"Well, both King Robert and Lord Stark were Jon Aryn's wards. They were close to the man and—"

I sighed. She really is slow, isn't she? "No, Jeyne. Think." I fixed her with a look and her expression twisted up as she pondered it out. It felt like it took her at least five minutes before realization dawned on her and she gasped.

"The King wants to ask Lord Stark to become the new Hand!"

I nodded.

"But then what would that mean?" She wondered. "Are you going back to King's Landing too?"

"It's possible. Very likely, in fact." If Prince Joffrey is coming, then it's very likely that King Robert has plans to propose a betrothal between House Stark and House Baratheon. Since I'm the eldest daughter, I would likely be the one being sold off. If betrothed to Joffrey Baratheon, I'd have to leave for King's Landing, there's no other choice.

"But you can't leave!" Jeyne looked at me with misty brown eyes. "If you leave, then-then what would happen to us?"

"I don't know," I said because I truly didn't know. "We can send ravens."

The girl's expression turned from sadness to anger at my flat tone. "How are you so calm about this? Why aren't you upset? You're going to be leaving Winterfell! Your home."

"And what? It's not like I'd miss anything here."

"Ugh! You're unbelievable!" Jeyne stood up angrily and stomped across my chambers to the door.

"Wait. Why are you so upset?" I asked.

She whirled around, her black braids swing violently, and fixed me with a withering glare. "You know Sansa, sometimes you're a really horrible person."

What is that supposed to mean? She's saying it like I don't already know that. I didn't have the chance to say anything more before she opened the door and slammed it behind her. Teenage girls are so damn dramatic.

Lady whined at me. "Oh, don't get me that look," I said. The last thing I need is judgment from a dog.


	4. Sansa III

**Sansa III  
_The Burdens We Must Bear_  
**

* * *

Jeyne refused to speak to me for two whole weeks after our subsequent argument—Could you even call it an argument? Blowing up and storming out of the room wasn't much of an argument if you asked me. Nevertheless, Jeyne seemed to have taken great offense to what I had said avoiding me at meals and choosing to sit with Laria Cassel and Palla Rees during our embroidery lessons. Just as well, I suppose if she could enjoy the company of two insipid dimwitted girls, then she was welcome to do whatever she wished with them. The only downside is that I was left alone with Arya during these times and that was vexing.

When I could, most of my time was spent training Lady, studying in my chambers, or practicing my vielle in the library. Mother suggested that I play for King Robert and Queen Cersei at the feast and unfortunately I was in no position to refuse. So I was currently in Winterfell's library, rehearsing a rendition of the Mother's Hymn per Lady Stark's request.

My musical aptitude was one of the few traits that I managed to carry over from my past life. My previous mother believed that music made children more cultured and refined. Tatiana would have me play the violin until I developed blisters and calluses, and those blisters cracked open to bleed and scab over. She said that there are two types of pain in life. The first was a useless pain that's only suffering, while the second was the pain to make you strong. " I am making you strong, mal'yish, " she used to say.

Funny how I could still vividly recall the sound of her voice. Sometimes the memories of my past life were so fuzzy and indistinct that it was as if I was watching them on a bad cable network. Sometimes they were only static mixed with brief flashes of pictures, sounds, smells, voices of ghosts and past conversations. Sometimes the memories felt as real as if I had never left them. Information was either dribs and drabs or a waterfall of knowledge. I couldn't seem to remember my old name, and yet I still knew how to dismantle and clean a hunting rifle.

That was the most disorientating part of all this. That's what made it feel like a dream.

A vielle was the precursor to the violin and was designed in much the same way. Except for slight differences in the size and shape of the body, the number of strings, and the curve of the bow playing it was more or less the same. Perhaps that's why I started playing it to being with. Maybe I was chasing that sense of familiarity in a world that was so foreign to me.

It had started off as nothing more than simple curiosity. At Winterfell, there were often people coming and going. At any given time the castle would be filled with soldiers, or men of the Night's Watch, or bannermen and their families sworn to my father. At times Winterfell acted more like a hotel or hostel for Lords and Ladies traveling through the North than a castle, offering a place to escape the muddy roads and summer snows and to rest and relax before continuing on their way. Once in awhile, there'd even be artists; painters, and poets, and bards that would travel through Westeros and stay for a time at every castle they passed.

They always such interesting stories if you could manage to get them going. They told me things about the North and the South and the Riverlands that neither my parents nor Maester Luwin would've otherwise taught me. From them, I learned about the geography of the country, where were the most dangerous places to travel, how the smallfolk lived—a miserable provincial life of poverty—and gossip of the other prominent Houses. Combined with my academic studies, I was soon able to learn about much of this world and how it operates.

There was one of the bards that I favored quite a bit over the others. He'd always seem to stop by Winterfell on his way to or from White Harbor as he was constantly sailing in and out and around Westeros and across the Narrow Sea. He'd stay for only a few days and sing those songs about the Age of Heroes that Jeyne was constantly gushing about. The ones with charming princes and valiant knights such a Florian the Fool sweeping damsels off their feet. I found them too idealistic to be taken as anything more than propaganda. Still, he had a rather nice voice and he played the vielle with an enthusiasm that I don't often see in people.

One day, I remember, I was young, no older than two or three years old, and I had wanted to test a theory. For years I had been swaying wildly between what was real and what wasn't and I had proposed, as a means of figuring out which was which, to test my skill on the vielle. I thought that if my past life had in fact been a dream, there would be no way I'd be able to play it, much less play a song that only I had ever heard before. To my own surprise and the bard's, I managed to bumble my way through the melody of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony before Lord and Lady Stark were thus pulled away from whatever it was they had been doing and watched me perform it again. Maester Luwin said that I was a prodigy and it was in the moment, I suppose, that Lord and Lady Stark fully realized my potential. They quickly had me begin my tutoring sessions with Maester Luwin.

I developed a reputation for being peculiarly precocious. Within a year, I surpassed my brothers, Robb and Jon, and my father's ward, Theon Greyjoy, in our studies in spite of them all being four years my senior. The language barrier was the most difficult to overcome. The Common Tongue had similarities to English and the Latin languages, but it had some strange letters that resembled Greek and sounded more heavily accented. I was told it was a result of High Valyrian mixing with the native tongue when the Targarenys conquered Westeros. Everything else, I found, seemed to follow the same rules in mathematics and science. With my previous knowledge, it wasn't difficult to learn quickly and soon it led to a fair bit of teasing from the rest of my siblings when they realized they had no hope of catching up.

It was irksome, but I ignored it. And, eventually, my indifference led to their indifference. I couldn't say that I was particularly close with any of my siblings. Perhaps if I had to choose a favorite it would've been Robb or maybe even Jon. Although, rarely did I ever show any special attention to the latter. He was a bastard after all, and mother was a jealous woman. Jealous of what, I'm not sure. But Catelyn always seemed to hold a special kind of contempt in her heart for Jon. I suppose it was because he reminded her that she was, at one time, inadequate to Eddard Stark so he went and fathered a bastard with some woman who was better.

Whatever the reason, it was safer for me to have a closer relationship with Robb. It was expected of me. And because I was often around them studying, it was easier to form a bond with them than the younger children. I also didn't have much patience for children my own age or anyone younger.

The bow glided across the strings as I played the final note of the hymn. On the sofa, Lady lay, sprawled out with her front paws spread before her. She looked up at me as I finished, her head popping up from the cushion. After two weeks, she had nearly doubled in size from a large pup to a medium-sized dog.

How long before until she's full grown?

They say direwolves can grow as large as a horse. I'd never seen them before, so I couldn't say for sure whether or not that was an exaggeration, however with how things are looking I was beginning to fear that Lady may grow to such a monstrous size. A beast that size could easily overpower me and tear me limb from limb if not trained properly. I knew I had to take this seriously. I couldn't be like my baby brother, Rickon, who at six years old was barely able to take care of himself much less a direwolf. Shaggy Dog was as wild and untrained as an undomesticated wolf and he was still only a pup. It wouldn't be long until mother or father, likely mother, would order to have him put down for fear of Rickon's safety.

That couldn't happen to Lady. It would be such a waste of an opportunity. Nothing is ever more loyal than a dog. And a guard dog—a loyal direwolf—would be more beneficial to me than an armored bodyguard. Training a wolf was not dissimilar to training a dog. There had to be clear boundaries and a system of rewards and punishments. With that, training Lady was easy. She had already grasped some of the basic commands of sitting, laying down, and jumping up. I found that feeding Lady a little less than the others made her more responsive to the scraps of dried venison she received as rewards, and thus she was already becoming the best behaved of her littermates.

"Still practicing, I see." Master Luwin entered the library, his chain jingling as he walked. He was a balding older man, although blessed with robust health. In his arms, he carried a stack of heavy books. "Lady Stark asked me to come and fetch you for supper," he said.

"Has It already been that long?" It seemed that it was only an hour ago that I had lunch.

"You've been here all afternoon."

"Oh. I must've lost track of time," I moved toward the small table where my vielle case sat. My parents had had it made special for my eighth nameday. It was a beautiful wooden box, ash tree protected by a hard resin, and soft padding of goose feathers and cotton lining inside to keep the instrument undamaged. It was one of the few gifts that they managed to get right. I placed the vielle and the bow inside the case, latching it shut, and turned back to him. "Has there been any more news on the King's arrival?"

"There was a raven that arrived this afternoon," the maester answered. He moved to dispose of some of the books he was carrying as he spoke. "It said that the King and his party are less than a day's ride from Winterfell. They stopped at Castle Cerwyn and should be here sometime tomorrow around midday."

"So tomorrow…" I sighed.

"Is there something troubling you?"

"Did I look troubled?" I considered it for a moment. I suppose I am troubled. I felt anxious. This new change that was coming, it didn't sit well with me. And there was another thing about Jon Aryn's death… I was told he died of a sudden illness. He was old to be sure, yet I heard that similarly to Maester Luwin, Lord Aryn was very fit for his age. The timing of it all seemed very peculiar.

"I suppose I am feeling anxious," I said.

"Why?"

"It mostly preperformance jitters, but…"

The maester paused at one of the shelves and raised one of his thick, bushy eyebrows in my direction. "Go on," he urged.

"It occurred to me that I'm getting older and I won't be at Winterfell for much longer," I told him.

"Getting older is a part of life. We cannot fight it any more than we could fight the change of seasons or the setting of the sun." He placed the last book onto the shelf and moved to stand by the burning fireplace. The flames flickered and licked at the wood inside.

"How do you stand it?" I asked him. "Knowing that each day brings you closer and closer to your end… It's daunting, isn't it?"

Maester Luwin's lips twitch upwards. "People don't typically consider such ideas until they're much older until they start to see the signs of age," he said. "You're too young to be worrying about it. You're not even grown yet."

"But I will be. Soon I'll be a woman and I'll have to marry and have children…"

I still wasn't sure how I felt about that. The idea of marriage wasn't pleasant, however the idea of childbirth was abhorrent.

"As is the custom," Maester Luwin agreed. He was giving me a strange look, one that I couldn't interpret. "You're a Lady of House Stark. When the time is right your father will arrange a match between you and a Lord. If the gods are good, you'll have children and lots of them and supply your husband with an heir. That's the duty of a wife."

It sounded like a bunch of total bullshit to me. Perhaps I'm comparing this world too much to the last one. I really didn't appreciate it before; the convenience, the idea of equal opportunity, and democracy. "What if I don't want to be a wife or a mother? What if I don't want that responsibility?"

He took a moment to consider my words. "Some women who don't wish to be wives or mothers join the Silent Sisters and devote themselves to the faith of the Seven—"

I scoffed. If there was any idea more distasteful than childbirth, it was that. I'd rather be married than be a nun.

"Although even as a septa, you wouldn't be able to escape responsibility. It's a part of growing up, much like aging, you can't fight it nor run from it," he said. "Whether you're a wife of a Lord or a septa, you'll still have to do your duty to serve."

"Why is it women are always expected to serve?" I snipped. "It sounds like we're no better than slaves. Like we're property; bought and sold, used for political marriages or to be lusted after, and subjected and coerced into having children. Then what happens to us? We age, we're no longer young and pretty, and we're pushed aside like Old Nan and become nothing more than an old crone telling stories. I want more than that life. I don't want to be limited in such a way."

"You sound like Arya…"

"My sister isn't wrong," I said. "Can you really propose that men and women are treated fairly in this world? That one isn't subjugated by the other?"

Maester Luwin didn't respond—or more, I suppose, that he didn't have a rebuttal to my argument. Instead, he looked grimly and asked, "Then what would you rather do?"

That was the question, wasn't it? What would I rather do with the time I was given in this life? What would be the best method of utilizing it? "I want to study and invent and travel," I said. "I don't want to stay in one place popping out babies. There's a whole world out there; so much of it is undiscovered and underdeveloped. I want to visit the Citadel and see the palaces of Yiti and find out what's beyond the Sunset Sea."

He looked sympathetic for a moment with his lips pressed firmly together and his brow furrowed in thought. "You would've done well at the Citadel," he spoke solemnly. "I have never met anyone else so gifted at such a young age. I remember when you were a babe you never cried, yet you would scream and point when you wanted something. Then you were weaned you said your first word—milk."

Ah, yes, my infant years—Those were frustrating times. It was a lot of lying around and doing nothing while incompetent nursemaids kept giving me the wrong things.

"You always knew what you wanted and you quickly learned how to get it. Yes, you would've gone far. Perhaps you would've even been the next grandmaester had you been born a boy," the old man considered.

"But I wasn't." I met the maester's dark eyes, frowning. "And so I've been doomed to a life of indentured servitude," I sighed.

"We all have our burdens to bear," he agreed. "Some burdens are heavier, some are lighter—yet we must bear them all the same. Now come," he gestured with his hand, "your mother is waiting."

I left the library with Lady on my heels and traveled to the dining hall for supper. I couldn't say what I ate or whether or not I enjoyed it. I was too preoccupied with replaying my conversation with the maester. Mother sent all of us to bed early and warned us to rise early tomorrow to prepare for the arrival of the royal party.

I didn't sleep well that night. It was the first sleepless night of many to follow.


	5. Sansa IV

**Sansa IV  
****_The Royal Party_**

* * *

The courtyard of Winterfell was in a state of organized chaos. People rushed this way and that, dogs were barking, horses were being led to the stables, and mother stood in the middle of it all conducting the chaos back into order. I stood there, where she instructed me to stand next to my brother Robb, watching this madness.

"It's like watching animals freak out before a storm…"

Robb laughed. "Not far from it," he agreed.

"Don't understand why your mother is having us all get prissy for the king," Theon remarked from behind me. He stood next to Jon who wasn't looking at all happy about having his hair sheared. "He's just a man. A fat man from what I hear."

"A fat king," Robb said pointedly. "Don't forget it. Appearance is everything."

"I heard he has a bastard in half the brothels in King's Landing," Theon said.

"Surprised it's only half," I said. Must be shooting blanks. King Robert had a reputation for being a whoremonger. Everyone knew it, although none dared to talk about it to his face.

"Sansa." Robb gave me a reproachful look, but behind us, Theon snorted.

None of us had the chance to say anything more for Lady Stark soon returned with Bran and Rickon in tow. She posed them, in the same manner, she had posed the rest of us then left with instructions for Robb and me to watch them. "Make sure they don't run off," she said. "I have to go find Arya."

"I saw the King! He's got hundreds of people." Bran was excited. It was the first time he'd seen such a large party visit Winterfell; not to mention such a prestigious one. "I saw soldiers on horses and the white cloaks of the king's guard," he said.

"I heard Jamie Lannister is coming," I told him.

"The kingslayer? Really?"

"As well as Ser Barristan Selmy and the Hound," I said.

"You're better off talking to Ser Barristan than Ser Jamie," Robb remarked. There was a hint of disdain in his tone when mentioning the latter; a trait he had picked up from father. Eddard Stark had no fondness for Lannisters, and Ser Jamie in particular, he thought to be especially dishonorable for stabbing King Aerys Targaryen II in the back after vowing to protect him as a member of the king's guard. It didn't matter that such action helped win the war for Robert's Rebellion or that King Aerys was madder than a rabid dog and had both Grandfather and Uncle Brandon burned alive, Ser Jamie would always be a dishonorable man and that was that at least to my father.

In my past life, someone like Ser Jamie would've been considered a war hero for dethroning a dictator. But this was a different world. The rules were different. Kings were blessed by the gods and their word was law.

"Ser Barristan is said to be the best sword in the Seven Kingdoms," I told Bran. "I'm sure he has some interesting stories to tell."

Other people began to line up behind us. There was the steward, Jeyne's father, and Maester Luwin and the kennelmaster as well as large majority of the household servants. Father and Mother soon joined us too, standing in between Robb and Rickon, with mother keeping the youngest closest to her side. She turned her blue eyes on me and asked, "Sansa where's Arya? I sent her over here."

I shrugged. "Haven't seen her." Just as I spoke, Arya ran past in her fur cape and a solider's helmet. Father stopped her, taking the helmet off her head to both Robb and Jon's amusement, and passed it behind him to Ser Rodrick Cassel. He sent Arya to stand beside me and she shoved Bran out of her way.

The first king's guard trotted through the gates on a pure white horse with silver hair. Then followed a young boy, no older than fifteen, dressed in dark red on a brown stallion. He had the Lannister features of his mother, blonde hair and a rather soft, almost feminine looking, face. Prince Joffrey, I suppose. Behind him was a guard dressed in black armor on a black steed with a helmet that looked like a snarling dog—That'd be the Hound.

They rode into the courtyard, looping around as they entered. The Prince looked at me and smiled rather smugly. Huh. Robb was looking between me and the Prince and didn't look all too happy about the looks the younger boy was giving me. I'll admit I wasn't too pleased by it either, though I knew better than to show it.

The royal carriage came after a large cumbersome thing, with red flags of yellow lions and stags. Two more king's guards followed it. Then finally came King Robert. King Robert was a bear of a man, black-haired and bearded and big, very big. It's a wonder his horse managed to stand under the weight of such a large, burly fat man. The poor beast was probably dying.

Silently we all knelt in the dirt, bowing our heads. He dismounted from his horse and lumbered over to my father; his boots heavy on the ground. I peeked at him out of the corner of my eye. He had to be at least six feet tall if not half as wide. I suddenly felt pity for all the whores in King's Landing. If that was the man that was flopping overtop of them, I'm amazed none of them weren't crushed. He stood there in his brown leather and thick fur coat looking down at my father. With a twitch of his fingers, he gestured for him to stand and the rest of us followed.

"Your Grace," Father greeted him while the King sized him up, looking him up and down frowning.

"You've gotten fat."

Eddard Stark looked taken aback by the remark from the King. My mother didn't look like she knew what to make of it either. Father quirked his brow and sized the King up incredulously. Of the two of them the King was by far fatter and he seemed to say this with his expression. King Robert cracked a smile and began to laugh along with my father and they hugged like brothers.

"Cat!" The King soon embraced my mother as well, kissing her cheek.

My mother smiled. "Your Grace."

The King ruffled little Rickon's hair before he turned back to my father. "Nine years I have not seen you. Where the hell have you been?"

"Guarding the North for you, Your Grace. Winterfell is yours—"

The doors to the royal carriage opened and come came the Queen and her two youngest children, all of them blonde-haired and wearing heavy fur cloaks. They were used to the Northern chill. Even in the summer, the North arctic winds chilled those from the South. Sometimes it even snowed, though it never stayed around for long. She came forward in her red dress looking over the group of us as she did.

She didn't look impressed.

"Where's the Imp?" Arya asked me.

"Not now," I said.

"Who have we here? You must be Robb," The King shook my brother's hand. "Ah, you're a pretty one," he smiled at me then turned to Arya. "And your name is?"

Arya sized him up, squared her shoulders, and answered in a manner that almost sounded rude. "I'm Arya."

This was going to be a long day if I was to babysit my sister and keep her from doing or saying anything inappropriate. Fortunately, the King didn't seem to mind the clipped tone in which my sister spoke and proceeded down the line to Bran, who when prompted began flexing his arm. "You'll be a soldier," the King said.

"There's Jamie Lannister, the Queen's twin brother." Arya pointed to a member of the king's guard removing his helmet. Blond flouncy hair and a chiseled face belied another Lannister.

I pushed Arya's hand down to her side. "Don't point. It's rude."

The Queen came forward, offering my father her hand. He kissed it as was courtesy and both he and my mother bowed in respect, "My Queen."

"Take me to your crypt. I want to pay my respects!"

The Queen frowned at her husband. "We've been riding for a month, my love," she said. "Surely the dead can wait."

But the King didn't listen, or more, he blatantly disregarded her and called for Lord Stark to come with him. Because Robert was King, my father was in no place to refuse and hurried to catch up with his old friend that was already halfway across the courtyard. For someone so large, he sure moved rather nimbly.

"Where's the Imp?" Arya asked me again. However, this time I wasn't the only one to hear it, for the Queen looked at both of us with a shrewd eye. If I could I would've smacked her right into a wall. "Where is he?"

"Would you shut up," I hissed.

The Queen turned away from us and walked back to Ser Jamie. She said something to him, her voice and demeanor tense. Ser Jamie nodded and remounted his horse. I'm guessing the Queen asked him to go somewhere...The village perhaps? I could speculate as to why, although I was sure I had a fair idea considering who was missing from the royal procession.

The Queen's youngest brother, Tyrion Lannister, more commonly known as the Imp, wasn't in the procession. How did I know this in spite of never meeting the man? Well, it's hard to miss a dwarf. Even riding on a horse, I would've spotted him immediately.

Arya was more or less disappointed by his absence. She heard stories about the Lannister half-man. I heard stories too. I heard that he was a grotesque, misshapen little man with vile inclinations. He had a reputation not dissimilar to King Robert in that he was a drunkard and a whoremonger. If he was in the village, then I had little doubt where he might be, visiting one of the brothels. Theon and Robb often snuck out during the night, without our parents' knowledge, to wet their dicks at these brothels. They even dragged a reluctant Jon with them once, although he didn't seem to like it and never went again. I only knew about it because they used me as a cover, should mother and father awake and find them not in their chambers, which hadn't ever happened up til now.

The Queen gathered her children and led them over to us. First, she introduced Joffrey who was overall charming and formal with my mother present. He smiled when he got to me, taking my hand to kiss it. "My lady, it's a pleasure to finally meet you. I've been looking forward to it," he said.

"Have you?"

"I've heard stories about you." He looked me up and down, his green eyes lingering on the curve of my hips. It was uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of such a look. I've been looked at like that before, more so in recent years as I've begun to physically develop more and more into a woman. It was usually Theon who looked at me in such a way, though I've caught others, kitchen boys, lordlings, men of the Night's Watch, even some of my father's own guards. Beauty was both a blessing and a curse, however in this world, it was more of a curse.

"I'm afraid to say most stories about me have been grossly exaggerated," I said.

"I disagree. You're far lovelier in person than people said."

I laughed and looked away. "You're quite charming yourself, my prince."

"If my lady permits, I'd like to spend some time with you while I'm here at Winterfell," he said.

"I'd like that very much. My family is hosting a feast tonight to honor yours. There's going to be lots of food and wine and music and dancing. Should you chose to attend, I'd welcome your company," I told him.

"Then it's a plan. Save a dance for me, my lady," he kissed my hand again, this time lingering longer. He left with the Queen and his siblings as the servants directed them to the guest quarters. As soon as they were out of earshot and sight, the sounds of disgust erupted from my siblings.

"Looks like Sansa's got a crush," Theon jested much to the chagrin of Robb and Jon.

"I think I'm going to hurl," Arya gagged.

"That makes two of us," Robb agreed. He looked at me perplexed as if he were seeing me for the first time.

"I was merely being diplomatic," I said.

Robb scoffed. "To hell you were. You were flirting. Shamelessly," he looked pointedly at the direction of where the prince disappeared.

"I suppose we know where he's gonna stab it now—Ow!"

Jon slugged Theon in the arm. "Shut up," he said.

We were fortunate mother had taken Rickon with her when she left or we would've all been boxed in the ears for talking so vulgarly in front of Arya and Bran. The latter of which was confused. "I don't understand, who's gonna stab what where?" He asked.

"It's not important," I told him. "Theon was making a bad joke."

"Well, you're all gross and I'm leaving before either of you say anything else!" Arya was matter-of-fact and took Bran's hand, dragging him with her. "C'mon, you don't want to stay back there."

"You scared the children…"

"Seriously Sansa what are you up to?" Robb asked. He was skeptical of me. I could see it in his face. Jon and Theon were too. I didn't blame them. Flirting was out of character for me and they knew me well enough to know that I never showed the slightest interest towards boys.

"I don't know what you mean," I feigned cluelessness. "I'm not up to anything."

Of course, none of them believed me and rightfully so.


	6. Sansa V

**Sansa V  
****_Family Comes First_**

* * *

"Will we be married soon or do we have to wait?" I asked my mother.

Mother met my eyes through the looking glass I was seated in front of. Her cool blues were darker in the light from the fireplace, more clouded in thought, her expression serious. "Your father hasn't even said yes yet," she told me.

We were discussing my betrothal to Prince Joffrey. As I suspected, King Robert had proposed the idea of uniting the Baratheon and Stark Houses hours earlier in the family crypt. Father then had discussed it with my mother and she subsequently has decided to discuss it with me before the feast.

"Do you think he'll say no?" I sat still as my mother proceeded to twist and braid strands of my auburn hair into one of the fancier Northern styles. It reminded me somewhat of the way nordic Vikings used to wear their hair. It was a bit too ostentatious for my taste, but nowhere near as elaborate an updo as Queen Cersei wore from the South.

"Well, he'd have to leave home," she said, her expression growing grimmer at the thought. "He'd have to leave me...and so would you."

"You left your home to come here," I countered, "and I would be queen someday, which would make father the second most powerful man in the kingdoms. Most lords wouldn't pass up that opportunity."

Catelyn begrudgingly conceded that point, "Although that may be true, your father isn't most lords. He wouldn't sell his daughters for a crown."

"Because he's an honorable man?" I asked.

"Yes."

Honor… I scoffed at that word. Honor was simply nothing more than a kinder word for pride. It meant little to me. It was only a means for other more seemingly 'virtuous' persons to lord their superiority over those they consider lesser. I've never been much one for pride in any form. No, I have other vices.

"Honorable men are loyal, yes?" I reasoned. Mother nodded. "Then wouldn't father be loyal to his friend? If King Robert desperately needs father to be Hand of the King, do you really think he'd decline? Have you ever known him to say no to King Robert?"

"Pass me that cord, Sansa," Mother held out her hand for a strip of brown leather cord. I picked one off vanity table and hand it back. She tied the end of my braid with it and let it fall down my back, then taking more strands from the opposite side of my head, she began to braid again as she spoke. "Your father's first loyalty is to his family."

"Then why are we having this conversation?" I wondered.

"I wanted to hear your thoughts on it," she told me. There was a sharp pain at my scalp as she pulled my hair tighter in her fingers. "Your father wouldn't sell you off to a prince, even if it was requested by his friend, by his king, if you didn't want this. Do you want this, Sansa?"

It seems I've reached a moral dilemma. Do I tell her the truth or do I lie? I didn't say anything immediately. There were certain advantages to be sure that would arise from this match. The main one being that I would be more or less a princess and later when King Robert passed and Prince Joffrey inherited the crown, a queen. I knew that royalty had more freedoms than nonroyalty, that as a woman I wouldn't be nearly as limited as I am here. I would be able to finally leave Winterfell after years of requesting to go and see other communities in the North. Robb was often allowed, encouraged, and even forced to travel to the various castles for diplomatic meetings with the other Lords and Ladies of the North—it was his duty as heir to Winterfell. I, however, had never been allowed to accompany my father and brother. Mother said that a Lady's place was at home managing the household. And as a Northern Lady, I was expected to serve as nothing more than a glorified steward when my husband was away.

I was barely even allowed to go into the village of Wintertown. Except for festivals and such, and even then I was still accompanied by a handful or so of my father's guard and my siblings. I had more or less accepted this life of confinement within these castle walls. But I wished for more freedom to do as I pleased.

Marrying the prince would certainly be a way to get it, I suppose, and yet the prospect of having to marry in order to escape this place was dismal. Should I really trade one jailer for another? Would that be beneficial in the long term?

Can Prince Joffrey be trusted? Certainly not. No one can be. But can he be managed? Possibly.

"I'm not entirely sure. Prince Joffrey is a stranger to me." I decided to go with the truth. After all, it was best that I didn't sound too eager least my mother suspects me up to something. "He's rather good looking and when I talked to him he was pleasant, but… Well, first impressions," I said, "aren't really good indicators of a man's character, I'd say. Not to mention whether or not he'd be a good husband and I'm more worried he'd be like his father. I heard King Robert fathered a bastard at half the brothels in King's Landing—"

My mother's expression soured instantly and she stared me down through the looking glass. "Who told you that?" She asked, or more demanded.

"Theon," I said. There was no point in lying. It wasn't my hide that was going to be tanned.

"That boy…" Catelyn hissed under her breath, looking extremely displeased. "Sansa those are rumors."

"Rumors have merit sometimes," I rebutted her simply, intentionally playing the devil's advocate. "And can you really say that King Robert and Queen Cersei look happy together? I saw them today. I saw how she was ignored. What if, once we're married, Joffrey won't like me anymore? What if he'll think I'm ugly after I give him sons? What if he thinks I'm ugly now?"

My mother scoffed,"Then he would be the stupidest prince that ever lived." An affront to my beauty was also an affront to hers it seemed. I couldn't allow my mother to get too worked up, however, as that would be detrimental to my plans. I wanted my parents to be suspicious enough of this betrothal to create an easy escape should things go south, but not suspicious to the point that they wouldn't allow the betrothal to begin with. In this way, I'd be preparing myself for the worst depending on the kind of person Prince Joffrey was and I'd still manage to get myself to the capital.

Once there, I'd be able to network with other Lords and Ladies of prominent families. If this betrothal didn't play out and I manipulated things just so, I might be able to convince my father to let me fostered with one of the other Houses in the South. The Hightowers would be ideal in Old Town and close to the Citadel. I would be able to sneak away and visit the place and study the extensive collection of volumes there. Though I was under no misconception, things rarely worked out ideally, so as a backup I thought that the Martells of Dorne, with their cultural liberalism and progressive ideas on the treatment of women, would be a fine second choice.

"How old were you when you married father?" I asked suddenly, switching subjects to distract her. "It was an arranged marriage wasn't it?"

"Yes. Originally, my intended was going to be your Uncle Brandon, however, he died as you well know." My mother didn't seem to suspect the sudden change in topic. I watched her cautious of how her eyes darken and fell closed at her words. She took a moment to collect herself and said, "We had brief courtship before his death and I fell in love with him, madly, the way girls often fall in love with a handsome boy. When he died I was devastated and I wept for weeks."

"What was he like?" I was curious. No one ever spoke about Uncle Brandon or Grandfather beyond the facts of their death. I heard stories from Old Nan of Uncle Brandon as a boy when she'd confuse Bran for him, but otherwise nothing. It seemed, at least to me, that people avoided speaking of the ghosts that haunted Winterfell either for fear of being haunted themselves or respect for Lord and Lady Stark and oftentimes both. People as a whole were much more superstitious in this world, thus the dead and any subject pertaining to death wasn't discussed.

I found that out the hard way when I scribbled down a verse poem of Emily Dickenson during my lessons.

Because I could not stop for death,

He kindly stopped for me.

The carriage held just ourselves

And immortality.

Maester Luwin's reaction to it was less than encouraging. "Young children shouldn't write such dark poems," he had said.

The question brought a small smile to the corners of Catelyn's mouth. "He wasn't shy like your father," she told me. "He was passionate, some would've called him hot-blooded, and when he wanted something he pursued it until he got it."

"Sound like quite a man," I said.

Mother nodded in agreement. "The first time I saw him was at a tourney at Harrenhal. Your uncle was an excellent jouster and even at such a young age, people often compared him to a centaur, however, he lost that tourney to Rhaegar Targaryen. I remember he was furious when the prince crowned your Aunt Lyanna as his queen of love and beauty, passing over his own wife, Princess Elia. He jumped to defend her honor as any good brother would. It was only later at Riverrun that I learned we were to be married."

I have heard that story before in my history lessons with the maester. I didn't know my mother had been there. But something else she said stood out to me as well. "So Uncle Brandon was an arranged marriage too?"

"Yes. House Tully has a long history of political marriages," she said stretching her hand out for another cord, which I gave her. "It was expected of me and your Aunt Lysa."

"I see. Then what happened? You didn't marry Uncle Brandon?"

"I never got the chance," Catelyn shook her head. "Prince Rhaegar stole Lyanna Stark and Robert Baratheon, your uncle, your father, and your grandfather started a war to get her back. He promised me we'd be wed after he got back from the war, although he never came back and I was wed to your father instead."

War really is terrible, isn't it? I myself didn't look kindly on war which was together unproductive and wasteful. I found it inherently intolerable. Although, I consider myself fortunate to have been born into this world when I was. Robert's Rebellion sounded awful from all accounts. It completely ripped the country apart and overhauled the government. No doubt if I had been an infant during such a time, I likely wouldn't have lived long. Now the country of Westeros was in a period of relative peace and had been for the past seventeen years. I'm wondering why Terry decided to put me in this world at this time… Surely, there has to be a catch, right? As a rule of thumb, if something is too good to be true, it likely is.

"That must've been hard," I said. "How old were you?"

"I was twelve when I was betrothed to Brandon—"

Shit. Twelve? Are you kidding me? That's a literal child. I found myself disgusted yet again at this world and its treatment of women and children. How can you call a world like this just?

"—however I didn't marry your father until I was sixteen. We didn't love each other at first. In fact, our first years together were rather turbulent—

I suppose I have no place to judge. I am only thirteen. Not even a woman, by societal standards, because I haven't had my blood yet—Fuck, I was not looking forward to that. I didn't have those problems in my past life.

Mother let the next braid fall against my back bring me back to the subject at hand. "Marriage is not like the stories, Sansa," she said, her voice as grim as her eyes. "Some couples don't immediately love each other. It takes effort, lots of effort, and time for love to grow in a marriage."

"Do you ever wish things had gone differently; that you had married Brandon instead of father?"

"No." Mother's answer was instant, firm and unchanging. "If I had married Brandon Stark, then I wouldn't have had you or your siblings. And I wouldn't trade any of you for anything."

Still…

Catelyn stood behind me with her hands on my shoulders. She was smiling now, a loving mother's smile. Tatianna never smiled at me like that as far as I remembered. It was strange seeing a smile like that. There were times when I wondered whether or not it was a lie on Catelyn's part. Was she really happy with the life she lives? Or is she lying to herself because the truth would hurt far too much?

I didn't know the answer. Although I wasn't deluding myself into thinking she actually cared about me. She didn't even know me. No one did. She only saw Sansa, her sweet, young, intelligent daughter. I was more than just Sansa. I was more than this life—and yet, no one would ever know that.

Sometimes the world felt to me like I was a person standing in a pond of goldfish. The fish swam around my ankles, under the water, unable to see what lay beyond their pond. But I saw it. I knew what lay beyond. It was a sea of goldfish ponds; each one small, insignificant, and indistinguishable from the rest. I wonder what the point of life is if it all just repeats? Why bother living? For what purpose should someone even try?

I had no answer. I doubt I ever will. Catelyn's hand was warm under my own. I had to look away and collect myself. "I think—" I paused searching for the right words. "I think I'd like to try to love Prince Joffrey. I think I could if father agreed to the betrothal. We may not get a better offer for my marriage. We should take it."

Mother nodded in understanding. "If that's what you think, I'll tell your father," she said. "Ultimately it's his decision."

"I know this is difficult for you, mother. Thank you." I turned in my chair and smiled up at her.

"You've grown up to be such a kind beautiful, intelligent girl. I'm proud of you Sansa and the person you're growing to be." She stroked my face tenderly with her thumb. "You'll make a fine queen someday."

"You really think so?"

"There's no doubt in my mind. You'd be the Good Queen Alysanne reborn."

I laughed. What a ridiculous notion. The Good Queen Alysanne? Really? I was hardly that good of a person to be compared to one of the most beloved queens of all time. I wouldn't grow to be someone who was beloved in this world. Feared? Yes. But beloved, my mind has been too warped for that.

"Sometimes I worry you put me on a pedestal," I said. "You really shouldn't though. I'm going to disappoint you eventually."

Catelyn frowned. "Where ever did you get that idea?" She asked. "Sansa, you could never disappoint me. You're my daughter. I'll love you no matter what."

"Family, duty, honor," I said. "Family comes first."

"Family comes first," she agreed.


	7. Sansa ?

**Sansa ?  
**_**The Lost Prologue**_

* * *

The world consists of two things: Light and Objects.

Light is that which exists but is more or less invisible to the naked eye. The average human can only see a small range of this light and this small range is called, simply enough, visible light. But there is a light that exists which cannot be seen. I'm sure you've heard it, gamma rays, x-rays, ultraviolet, infrared, radio waves—even microwaves that heat your food—all of these are light in its various forms. There's even light that doesn't exist on that spectrum scale, a light that has no words to describe it because no one has ever seen it or is capable of seeing it. Light exists always. Nothing can destroy light. It is constant.

Objects are that which controls the light. It bends, it blocks, it filters, and reflects the light however it deems fit. Objects pay a steep price for controlling light. Objects are solid. They are stable unable to pass through one another or disappear with the blink of an eye. They cannot simply flow and exist the way light can. They are limited by their own physical characteristics and thusly are bound to always be visible to the naked eye.

The interaction between light and object creates shadows. But shadows do not really exist. They are tricks—illusions of the light and object. They shift and they change and evolve with the object that casts the shadow. A times shadows can look almost alive, dancing, and eating, and creeping forward. But shadows aren't alive. Shadows don't feel. Shadows are Shadows and every shadow is the same shadow responding to a different environment.

In the same manner of shadows, this illusion of light and object, I was born as the object Sansa Stark—a girl of noble birth, the daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn of House Stark—but that wasn't who I have always been. Once, I had another name, another body, another life—A life that is so long gone that it feels like a dream, but I still remember. I remember the smells and the sounds, and the people—family, friends, enemies—I remember. Sometimes I remember so vividly that it almost feels like the life I am living now is the dream.

Am I dreaming? Am I living? Which is it?

I don't think I know anymore. Or perhaps I do.

I've seen into the void of death. I've been to the angles of space outside of time. I've spoken to that thing—that shadow—which exists there and it showed me the truth.

I am a shadow.

We are all shadows. But shadows, as I said, don't really exist. They are like the angles of space between time, only visible because of two intercrossing planes, which means they don't exist. That means that I don't exist. It means no one exists.

Life is nothing more than what you choose to see. The distinction between what is and what isn't is nothing more than a stubbornly persistent illusion.

But don't take my word for it. Let me tell you my story. But first, a warning.

A great philosopher once wrote; "In times of peace the warlike man attacks himself." This is the root of all our problems, and by this, I mean we. We are the root of all our problems, our confusion, our anger, our fear of things we do not understand. To be human, in other words, is to be ignorant. Before we continue, I want you to know what you'd be sacrificing to know the truth: your ignorance and, by extension, your humanity. And I implore you to turn back now if the thought of losing your humanity gives you any pause, for it should for the rational being, and know that I will not hold it against you if you choose to follow my advice.

There was a time that I wished someone had bothered to give me that advice. Perhaps if they had I would've managed to save myself this misery. Perhaps not. Who could say for sure? I know I would've appreciated the choice had I been given one, but I wonder if my curiosity would have won out, in the end, resulting in the same fate? In that case, I'm going to say what I'd say to my curious past self; "Be cautious. Think it through before you proceed. Once you go into the labyrinth, once you've seen into the shadows, once you've known the truth know that there will be no going back to a time before you knew what you knew. There is only forward—forward into madness."

If none of this makes you pause, then by all means—let us continue on with this tale. But don't come crying to me when all is said and done. You did this to yourself and I will take no blame.

* * *

**A/N:**

Thank you for all the reviews, follows, and favorites of this fic. The next chapter is taking some time, but I wrote a prologue. I should put it at the beginning, but it'd mess up the order of the comments/reviews, so fuck it. I'm putting it right in the middle.

(Also I've changed the title of this fic and the summary to better reflect where I'm headed with my outlining of this story and what the theme of this story is going to be. I hope that didn't confuse you too much.)


	8. Joffrey I

**Joffrey I.**

* * *

Northerns weren't well known for throwing outlandish celebrations. They were hardworking, solemn, stern individuals with a simple outlook on life. Joffrey thought they were all rather dull and uninteresting. The feast being held at Winterfell paled drastically when compared to the tournaments held at King's Landing. The accommodations were modest, the music simple, the food though passable was lacking in refinement and presentation. Overall, the North seemed to lack all the usual pomp and circumstance of which he was accustomed.

The young Prince was seated at a table on the dais overlooking the great hall. From his position, he surveyed the tables below immediately picking out several familiar faces amongst the crowd. His father was making a drunken fool of himself again. After two casks of strong wine had loosened his lips and hardened his dick, he was reaching for anything with tits. Two of the Stark's household maids were seated on each knee, laughing gaily, while the King kissed and groped and buried his face into their voluptuous bosoms.

Joffrey was so used to such displays from his father that he barely batted an eye. Though something always coiled inside him whenever he caught the cool glare of death from his mother that often accompanied his father's antics. Cersei was glaring at King Robert now—Not that it would make any difference since the King was too drunk to notice.

Joffrey had grown rather annoyed at both his parents. Sure, his father was a drunken fool, however, his mother was no better with her love of Dornish Red. Both fools, both drunks, both too caught up with their own petty quarrels to rule the Seven kingdoms with any modicum of skill. They were useless. He couldn't wait until they were out of his way—Especially his father. The sooner the fat oaf died, the better. Then as soon as he was crowned King, he'd have his mother sent back to Casterly Rock to stop her from meddling.

The last thing he needed was a woman telling him what he can and cannot do. He wasn't Tommen. He wasn't weak like he was. He wouldn't bend over backward to accommodate his mother's wishes. When he was King, he'd do as he liked whenever he liked it and no one would be able to tell him otherwise.

It was a lesson that he'd be teaching his new betrothed as soon as they were back to King's Landing.

The prince's eyes fell on the girl in question. She had started the evening sitting with her family on the dais, but after the dancing had started she'd gotten up and taken a few turns with each her brothers, even the bastard, pulling him out of whatever conclave he had been hiding in. She was dancing with her brother, Robb, now and as she danced every so often her eyes met his after a spin and she'd smile. It was unclear whether she was smiling at him or if she was just simply smiling for her eyes never lingered on him. That was odd. Most girls lingered when they looked at him, their gaze feeling like a physical caress.

But Sansa…

Sansa's gaze was, at most, nothing more than a fleeting interest, as if she was merely taking an account of who was still in the room. There was a calculated look about her, he realized, something in her eyes that made every step, every smile, every look, feel deliberate and so unlike all the other girls he had met before. It reminded him of his mother, although there was something colder about it, apathetic almost, whereas his mother's eyes burned with a quiet, passionate rage.

She was a beauty, though, there was no denying that. While her eyes never lingered, his certainly did trailing over her lithe, graceful figure with a hedonistic hunger. Her dancing enticed him, the way she moved so nimbly, so self-assured as if she was gliding on air drew his eyes to the subtle developing curves of her hips and breasts. And when she spun, the skirt of her blue dress twirled outwards with her flashing the pale skin of her ankles to his eyes. It was like milk or freshly fallen snow, and Joffrey briefly imagined himself drawing up her skirts and exposing more of the pale skin to his viewing pleasure.

The song came to an end and with it, the dancers slowed and came to a stop as well. Sansa curtsied toward her dancing partner and laughed at something her older brother had said. Then as if she felt his eyes on her, Sansa's looked up toward the dais and met Joffrey's hungry gaze. She didn't blush and shy away like most girls would've done, like he had seen other girls do, instead she turned and strode towards him, climbing the steps to the dais and sitting close to him with a laugh.

"Whoa, I think I need to sit down for a minute and catch my breath," she said. "I've been dancing too much." She turned to him and smiled in a friendly manner, tossing a thin auburn braid over her shoulder as she addressed him. "Are you enjoying the feast, Prince Joffrey?"

"Somewhat, my lady, more so now that you're here." He replied with a lazy, boyish grin that often caused the young ladies at court to swoon.

Sansa merely nodded and grinned back. "I'm glad to hear it! I suppose this feast is quite lackluster when compared to those that take place in the capital, I worried that you may have been bored sitting up here by yourself."

He had been. Although it would've reflected badly on him to say it, so Joffrey kept his mouth shut for fear of reprimand from either of his parents. He wasn't allowed to be rude to his betrothed and since he was prince he had to adhere to what King Robert wanted by courting the girl. "How can one be bored when you're in the room? I was watching you dance," he said.

"I noticed," she tilted her head in question. "Did you enjoy the performance?"

"Very much so. You're a good dancer," he said because she was.

"Thank you," she preened under the praise, "I've had a lot of practice."

"I can tell."

"So what do you like to do for fun, Prince Joffrey? Any hobbies?" She asked.

"I don't have a lot of time for hobbies," he told her. Between his lessons on politics and history and his training with the Red Keep's master at arms in preparation for his rise to power, he didn't get to enjoy a lot of free time throughout the day.

"That's a shame," she said, looking rather let down by his statement. But she seemed overall undeterred from the conversation as her eye caught something on his person. "Is that a dagger strapped there to your belt? It's got an interesting handle..."

"Oh, this?" Joffrey placed his hand over the blade in question, wrapping his fingers around the curved, white handle of the weapon. Sansa nodded, her eyes light with something that looked like a genuine interest.

"It looks like a beautiful weapon," she said. "Do you mind if I—Can I look at it closer?"

The request was rather unusual for a girl to make as Joffrey had never met a girl that had taken any interest in daggers or swords before, but he saw no harm in it and unsheathed it holding it up to the girl. "Sure."

Joffrey watched the girl study the dagger. It had been a present from his father on his last name day and as such it was a beautifully crafted and ornamented weapon befitting a King or his son. Joffrey would've been impressed by the extravagant gift from the king and even swayed into liking the fat oaf a bit if he hadn't been aware that the dagger was nothing more than a cast-off from the spoils of King Robert's tournament bets. It was won by the King after betting against his uncle, Ser Jamie, in a joust with Ser Loras Tyrell and has remained the only time the Kingslayer was forcefully dismounted from his steed. He told Sansa this, although he rephrased it to make himself look grateful, his father generous, and Ser Jamie a fool.

Sansa's eyes lingered on the glittering steel blade, the ivory bone handle, the elaborate steel engravings on the hummel. She outstretched a hand as if to caresses the sharp edge, then stopped looking at him for permission. "May I?"

"Here," Joffrey handed her the weapon and watched as Sansa's pale fingers wrapped around it gently, tentatively, as if she was unsure of what to do with it. She held it up toward the candlelight, studying the curved blade with her eyes, before trailing her fingertips down the center of the curved metal.

"This is Valyrian steel, isn't it?" She asked surprising him.

"How did you know?" He wondered.

"It's lighter than other daggers I've held in spite of the rather large size," she traced a finger along its sharp edge. "And they say nothing is sharper than Valyrian steel. My father has a Valyrian sword called Ice, and I've seen it cut through wood as if it were butter. What's the handle made out of? Bone?"

"Dragon bone," he told her.

She looked impressed and tightened her grip on the handle, admiring the blade. "It's a very handsome blade," she said handing it back to him. Joffrey got the sense that she wasn't merely talking about the dagger and it made something swell in his chest.

Perhaps it was because of that feeling that Joffrey fumbled when slipping the dagger back into its scabbard. Perhaps it was the intense way her eyes looked at him, piercing through his usual charming eloquence and rendering him without a single thing to say. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair she could look at him like that.

"I heard that there are dragon skulls in the Red Keep, is that true?" She asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"Uh, yes," his eyes traced the seam of her lips. She had quite a pretty mouth, full pouting lips tinted with a natural rosy hue, and the way it moved as she spoke had him distracted.

Gods, she's pretty. But it was more than just simply being pretty. He had seen many pretty girls in the capital, where there it seemed that there was no end of them, flocking to court and preening around his father as they were a bunch of exotic birds. Some of them had been even prettier than Sansa, he was sure, however, at that moment he was unable to recall any of their faces. Joffrey couldn't pinpoint what exactly made the Stark girl different, but there was something there, something he hadn't ever encountered before that left him feeling out of his element.

"Have you seen them? I heard that the biggest is the size of a carriage…"

"It is."

"What's it like standing next to that and seeing it every day? " she asked.

"Well, I don't actually see it every day," Joffrey said. "My father had the skulls removed from the throne room after he became King. "

"Oh…" Her expression fell slightly and she nodded. "I suppose that makes sense. No one really wants to remember the Targaryens or their dragons. I personally believe that that's a bit of an oversight. Of all the Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, the Targaryens have some of the best stories and songs are written about them. I know they committed horrible atrocities at the end, but they singlehandedly reshaped the course of history. Sometimes severity is the price we pay for greatness."

"I couldn't agree more…" Joffrey looked at Sansa again—really looked at her. Her eyes were impossibly blue, as deep and fathomless as the ocean, and for a moment he felt as if he was drowning in them as the air left his lungs.

Then the moment was broken when a chunk of something brown, small, and possibly edible bounced off of Sansa's cheek. They both froze, Sansa's eyes fell closed and when they did something cold and icy passed over her face before she turned her away to look across the table. Joffrey followed her line of sight and saw the other Stark daughter, the ugly boyish one, with her spoon raised in the act of launching another spoonful of cooked sausage at her sister.

"Arya," Sansa addressed her sister, smiling. It was a different kind of smile than before, Joffrey realized, something sharp and dangerous. "It seems you missed your mouth," she wiped her cheek with the sleeve of her dress. "Sausage is easier to eat when you use a fork instead of a spoon—"

Arya opened her mouth to speak; but before she could get out even a word, Robb appeared, lifting her squirming body up from the bench. "Alright," he said, "time for bed."

"But I'm not tired," she complained.

"Too bad," he said and nudged the younger girl forward away from Sansa. It was clear that the cretan was being removed from the feast before she could make any more of a scene. Myrcella would've never dared to behave in such a manner, and yet Sansa seemed rather resigned to the behavior as if it wasn't worth her time to address it.

Sansa rolled her eyes and laughed. "Sisters, you can't live with them," she joked.

"Does that normally happen?"

"Sometimes. Arya and I don't get along much," she said matter-of-factly. "But don't worry, I'll get her back. I always get her back." There was something ominous about the way she said the last part, but before Joffrey was able to address it she began asking him about his travels from King's Landing.

"What was the best place you visited on your way here and what was the worst?"

The answer came easily to him. "The Neck was the worst. Too much rain and mud, we were delayed a full five days because of it," he told her. "I haven't decided on the best."

"What do you think of Winterfell so far?"

"Umm…" He hesitated.

"It's rather boring at first glance, isn't it?" She said sympathetically.

"That's not the word I'd use, my lady."

"No, go ahead. You can say it," she assured him. "This place is dull when compared to the capital. Nothing interesting ever really happens here. The Red Keep is probably a lot more exciting."

"Yeah, a bit," he laughed. Joffrey found himself telling her some various gossip that happened around the Red Keep. Things that would've made a more demure girl blush as a lot of it had to do with the affairs of the noble Lords and Ladies, and the salacious acts they got up to when they thought no one was watching. "In the Red Keep, someone is always watching," he told her.

Sansa asked him what he liked best about living in the capital and what he liked least. Joffrey told her about the tournaments that were often hosted by the King and how he wanted to ride in a jousting tournament. "Why don't you?" She wondered.

"My mother says that jousts are no place for a prince," he said.

"Well, that's not true," she frowned. "Prince Rheagar jousted all the time according to accounts. So did your father when he was your age. If it's something you want to do you should do it, forget what your mother says."

"Maybe." Her answer was one that he liked. "If I won a tourney, would you want me to crown you the Queen of love and beauty?"

"If that's what you wanted," she said, "I wouldn't turn it down." There was a glimmer in her eye, a teasing smile on her lips that he couldn't help but return. The boy moved closer to her so that his leg brushed up against hers.

"I hear that you might be coming to King's Landing when we leave Winterfell," he whispered in her ear.

Sansa grinned. "I hear the same. What are your thoughts on that, my prince? Are you in favor or are you opposed?"

He thought about it. Joffrey imagined Sansa and him walking through the gardens of the Red Keep, him dressed his fine doublets and her in the silk summer dresses of the other courtiers, and they'd be talking as they were now while the sunshine made Sansa's hair glow like burning flames. It was a pretty picture, one that the prince quite fancied. When he had first heard about the betrothal, Joffrey had been less than thrilled, downright belligerent, until King Robert had backhanded him so hard it made his ears ring. He thought that there was no way that he would like some demure Northern girl, even if she was said to be particularly beautiful and intelligent, and he told himself that she was going to be boring. Then he met her…

And she wasn't boring. In fact, she was anything but. From the first moment she walked into the feast, she was the one thing that had his undivided attention. And now… Well, now Joffrey was curious and he wanted to know more about her.

"I think," he began brushing a braid behind Sansa's ear, "I think it'd be nice to have you return to the Red Keep with me, my lady. I could show you around. I could show you the dragon skulls if you'd like?"

"Oh, would you? I'd like that a lot, Prince Joffrey—"

"Joffrey," he said. "You can simply call me Joffrey, my lady."

Sansa nodded enthusiastically and chirped, "Alright, then you're welcome to call me Sansa, Joffrey. I hope we can be friends from here on out."

"Of course, Sansa." Her name fell from his lips like a purr and it seemed to have some effect on the girl as, for a moment, she looked flustered while her gaze fell to his mouth and heat rose to her cheeks. It was rather alluring and Joffrey leaned in closer as if to kiss her cheek before she stopped him.

"I seem to remember," she said, raising her brows, "that you wanted me to save you a dance?"

"I did." He stopped his pursuit and looked around the hall at the dancers. "Do you want to dance, my lady?"

"I always want to dance," she said.

"You're not still tired?" He asked.

"Not at all. I'm getting my second wind," Sansa laughed and took his hand in her, standing from the table. Joffrey let her, his eyes sparkling with fascination while Sansa smirked back at him. "C'mon, Joff. Try to keep up, if you can."

Her words were a challenge and it sparked something in him, something carnal. Yes, he thought, finally someone interesting.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

_This is the first third-person POV chapter of many to follow and I decided to start off with the complicated characters first. It was a rather tricky chapter to write as writing Joffrey is rather difficult. I wasn't quite sure how I wanted to characterize him and it took me some time to figure it out. This version of Joffrey is not exactly canon, but I'd say he's a bit more like Ramsay Bolton (especially in later chapters I have outlined) than the foolish, sadistic King he was in the show/books. I made him a bit more intelligent and a little (a lot) more sadistic in this fic as I've decided I'll be combining the Ramsay and Joffrey storylines together. This chapter is just a taste of what's to come. _


	9. Sansa VI

**Sansa VI  
****_Conflicted_**

* * *

He almost kissed me.

I don't know what to think. What am I feeling right now? Disgust? Yes. Nervous? A little. Afraid? No, not afraid. I feel unsettled, I think. I didn't expect him to get so close so soon.

Then again… why wouldn't he? I had been purposely teasing him all night, sending him flirty looks, laughing at his jokes, and smiling—gods, the smiling— My face hurts. I don't think I've ever smiled so much in this life. Certainly not so much in my last one. Why wouldn't he think I was interested? And that's the whole point, isn't it? Don't I want his attention?

I knew the answer. Of course, I did. But somehow the unforeseen changes of thinking up a plan and the actual execution of said plan was throwing me. This was all happening too fast. I needed some space, some space to think away from him. Dancing was as much space as I could get without causing a scene.

I almost wished Arya was here to cause a diversion. Almost. While on the best day Arya and I were at each other's throats, diversions were her specialty. But that would be running away and I couldn't run away. Not from this.

Get it together. Stick to the plan. Don't let this child make you run. You're better than that shit.

Obviously, I came on too strong. I need to pull back, let him chase. Men like to chase. I did. He's not any different. It's something instinctual, something in our DNA that dates all the way back to the Neanderthals and the hunter-gatherer nomadism of it all, a time when women where the gatherers and men were the hunters.

Except I was no longer a man, I had to remind myself. I didn't know what I was now. Male? Female? Both? Transgender? Fuck—I didn't want to ask myself these kind of question yet. Whatever I am or was, I had never been attracted to young boys or looked favorably on those who were.

That definitely made me a hypocrite now. This whole plan hinged on manipulating the affections of this child, grooming him as if I was a pedophile. It hardly matters that this body is physically younger, I knew the truth that my mind was not that of a child's and so it was no different than if I was a woman grown preying on a toddler. That fact made me hesitant.

Was I doing the right thing? By all accounts, absolutely not. But did such simple terms as right and wrong matter to me anymore? They didn't before and that's what led to my death, isn't it? But no, I was only doing my job. What happened to those girls wasn't my fault, I got involved after the fact. I did nothing wrong; and even if I did, who decides right? Did Terry decide what was right? If so, I'm certain I do not agree with that kind of morality. The kind of morality that punishes disbelief was the sort that allowed no free will. It wasn't like I was taking away his choice. If he falls for my flirtations that's his own damn fault. It's not as if I'm not forcing him to do anything.

I'm not forcing him to do anything...

The prince was watching me intently. We bowed to each other and I smiled at him. The music picked up tempo as the tune of a popular Northern jig began to fill the hall. The dance was a familiar one, the steps of which I could perform blindfolded.

I'm not forcing him to do anything...

I spun in a circle looping my arm through Joffrey's. He's not a bad dancer. Light on his feet if not a little reserved. At least he wasn't constantly stepping on my feet like some other partners I've danced with, my brother Jon included.

"You're good at this," I told him. "Do you dance a lot, Joffrey?"

The blond boy beamed under the praise—

Too easy. This is too easy, but I'm not forcing him...

"Some. At the feasts held at the Red Keep, I'm required to take at least one turn with every eligible lady in attendance."

"I see," I turned to him as he placed his hands at my waist, falling into a natural waltzing position. "You know, I hear that sparring is a lot like dancing. If your dancing is anything to go by, you must be fairly skilled with a sword too."

"I am," he said boasting.

"I surmised as much. With the Demon of the Trident as your father and the Lion of Lannister as your uncle it must come naturally to you," I said the dance drawing me away and around another dancer. I spun and twisted on the balls of my feet, keeping my eyes solely fixed on the prince as we were swept together again.

"You seem to have quite the interest in swordplay and weaponry, my lady," he observed. "Do you practice at all?"

"Gods, no. My mother would never allow it," I told him twisting under his arm and twirling back at the beckoning of his hand. "But I do like studying the weapons themselves, the designs, and smithwork that goes into each blade. A well-crafted weapon has a certain beauty in it. I think it's fascinating, but I wouldn't dare get caught with one in my hands."

It was the truth, mostly. I found that the best lies were the ones with the most truth to them, with only minor details altered or omitted. I knew better than to ever be caught with a sword in my hands, but that didn't mean that I was ignorant on sparring or swords. I couldn't afford to be in this life. I had to be able to defend myself against attacks when they occur, and I had no doubt they would, and when it happened I had but to win or die.

"I see. And what of your other interests? You must have more?"

"My interests are numerous, my prince. I read quite a lot, you see, so whenever I find something that strikes my fancy I cannot help but want to read all the tomes I can find on a particular topic."

"And what have you been reading? Anything good?"

"The word good is entirely subjective, so I don't know if you'd find the same books would appeal to you, however I think they are all objectively interesting. Lately, I've been quite taken with the work of Maester Ryben," I said.

"Maester Ryben?"

Joffrey's expression showed his immediate confusion at the name. He likely hadn't heard of him. The prince didn't strike me as someone who enjoyed the pursuit of reading and even if he did, Maester Ryben was an obscure name to even the most diligent readers. Maester Ryben's area of focus was of the banned, salacious, and obscene; books that were considered too extremist, or immoral, or liable to be released to the general public. Getting ahold of his work was a near-impossible feat for anyone but a maester. Luckily, Maester Luwin had been kind enough to obtain a copy of Maester Ryben's infamous work, ' The Price of Progress ', or so the maesters of the Citadel were led to believe.

"He's a well-known commentator on the banned books of the Citadel. You know the ones they don't let anyone but the measters read," I told him.

That caught the boy's interest instantly. "What book was it? What was it about?"

"It was called 'The Price of Progress: A Commentary on Archmaester Sandeman's Forbidden Journals by Maester Ryben', " I whispered it as if it was a secret and glanced around to make sure no one was paying too close attention to us. I caught the Queen's eyes, however, she was too far to make sense of what we were saying over the merriment of the feast. "It is long commentary on Archmaester Sandeman and his controversial work as a healer. You've heard of Archmaester Sandeman, haven't you?"

Joffrey looked confused again. Definitely not a reader. "No…"

"Oh, well the story goes that Sandeman was one of the greatest healers that ever lived, that he made many great contributions to modern medicine as we now know it, but that his contributions didn't come without a great cost to himself and others. He was eventually tried and executed by one of the Targaryen kings, Baelor the Blessed, when thirteen private journals became public in which he detailed the murders and dismemberment of over four dozen whores and brothel workers that he personally killed and dissected. Some of his journals, which Baelor ordered to have burned, were hidden away by the man before his death and later rediscovered in the annals of the Citadel. Maester Ryben wrote a commentary on Sandeman's journals debating the morality of his actions versus the outcome of his methods. He argued that while Sandeman committed horrendous crimes in the name of medicine, the fruit of his work has saved more lives than it cost."

"Sounds interesting—"

"It is… However, I'm not sure if I fully agree with the philosophy. What do you think? Do the ends justify the means?"

"Umm…" Joffrey hesitated. He seemed unsure, childlike—He was a child, I reminded myself. Perhaps the question was beyond his scope of understanding. In any chase, it became quite obvious that no one had ever asked him such a question. "I think it depends on the situation," he said. "It depends on what your goal is. If your goal improves lives, then I think the means could be justified."

He looked nervous. It was the same look I had seen on my siblings' faces when posed with a question of which they were unsure of the answer. I smiled at him and nodded. "I agree. I think morality is entirely situational. Taken out of context, any action or inaction can be seen as unjust," I said.

"That's a different opinion coming from a Stark," he remarked with raised brows. "I thought your family was all about honor?"

"It is. But what is honor exactly?" I asked. "It's rather difficult to define if you ask me. More often than not, I find that what is honorable depends on the situation. Like you said if you make a dishonorable choice, but it improves people's lives then wouldn't that choice be justified?"

"I suppose so… I think you'd get along with my uncle," he said.

"Which one? You have four, don't you?"

"I do. Stannis, Renly, Jamie, and the Imp. But I think you'd get along with my uncle, Jamie," He leaned down towards my ear, close enough that I could feel the brush of his lips against my ear, lowering his voice. "Do you know they call him the kingslayer?"

"I do," I whispered back.

"Do you know why?"

"I heard he was the one to kill the Mad King. My father doesn't like him much because of it."

"Not many people do," he said.

"Is he your favorite uncle?"

"I can't really say I have a favorite uncle. He's more interesting than Stannis at least, less annoying than his dwarf brother, a better fighter than Renly…"

"I have two uncles. Although I've only ever met one, my uncle Benjin. He's in the Night's Watch and not much of a conversationalist, you know," I said looking around the room for the dark-haired, black-bearded man wearing the black leathers and cloaks of the crows. I found him sitting next to Jon and a group of four other Night's brothers.

"Is that him, sitting with the bastard?" He followed my line of sight. I nodded.

"Yes," I ignored the haughty way Joffrey called Jon a bastard. "I can introduce you later if you wish."

"I'd like to meet more of your family, my lady." The lie flowed easily from his lips, if my mental age had been the same as my physical age, I would've likely believed it. However, there was just a touch of indifference in his eyes that told me, he didn't care much either way. I decided to save him the discomfort of Benjin's withering grey eyes.

"Alright, later then," I kept the answer vague and open-ended knowing as long as I didn't push, he wouldn't insist. The music died down as the song came to a close. "Tomorrow would you like me to show you around the keep?"

"You don't have to do that, my lady."

"Really, I don't mind," I said. "Winterfell is large, it's rather easy to get lost here if you don't know where you're going."

"Well, if my lady insists—"

"Sansa—" I turned and saw my mother coming towards us, in her long grey dress and braided hair. As she reached us, she smiled warmly at the Prince and I. "Pardon me, Prince Joffrey, I need to steal my daughter away for a moment."

"Of course, Lady Stark," he bowed and looked to me. "We'll talk later."

I nodded. Then with a promise to dance with him again before the night was through, mother turned me away and lead me off to the side. She was smiling at me, her blue eyes twinkling in the warm glow of the candlelight. "It's good to see you two getting along," she said.

"Yes, well, he's a very good dancer," I said.

"And?" She looked expectant.

"And what?" I furrowed my brow at the eager expression on her face.

"Do you fancy him?" She asked.

"I just met him. It's still too early to say, mother," I wanted to sigh at the eagerness of which she was questioning me. If I didn't know any better, I would suspect she was already picturing grandchildren in her future. Just a few hours ago, she acted as if she didn't want me to leave Winterfell, but now…

"I've never seen you show such interest in suitors before," she said.

"It was just a dance, mother," I said. Though I was beginning to wonder what it looked like to other people. Did I look like a girl that was tripping over herself to catch the prince's attention? Gods, I hoped not. That would be embarrassing, not to mention more than a little repulsive on my part.

I looked away from her prying eyes, taking stock of the room again. "Why did you pull me aside?" I wondered.

"The King is back at the head table. Your father wanted you to play your vielle," she said. "You brought it didn't you?"

"Yes," I nodded and gestured over the place where I had left it behind the musicians. "It's over there."

"Well, go and get it, so you can play it for the King and the Queen," she said.

I nodded, "Yes, mother." Somehow I couldn't help feeling a bit like a performing circus animal, turning tricks for her supper.

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**A/N: **Thank you for all the comments, kudos, subscriptions, etc. Sorry, this chapter took a little while to get out. Hope everyone had a nice holiday/new year!


	10. Cersei I

**Cersei I.  
**

* * *

She didn't like it. She didn't like it at all.

This place…these people…

The Northern climate didn't agree with her. Cersei Lannister hated the North. She hated the winter breeze that seeped into her bones despite the countless cloaks and fur smocks she wore. She hated being in the presence of her oafish husband as he laughed and drank and groped at the Stark servants right in front of her. She hated the pitying looks she kept receiving from Lady Stark; as if the humiliation wasn't enough, that she had to be looked down upon like some beggar in Flea Bottom by the sister-in-law of that ghost, that girl, the She-wolf that had haunted her marriage bed for seventeen years. But more than that, more than anything, she hated that that doe-eyed, red-haired, waif was going to be betrothed to her son—

_The nerve of it!_

Robert hadn't even consulted her about it before he made up his mind. And when she had made to contest it, all she had gotten for her trouble was a busted lip and a command from her king to keep her silence. He wasn't her king. How could she ever call a man like that a king? Prince Rhaegar Targaryen could've been a king, a true king, and she, his queen once upon a time. That's what she had wanted. That's all that she had wanted. But the gods had decided to be cruel. First, by taking her mother and leaving that deformed, lecherous little beast in her place, then by taking her Dragon Prince and leaving her with a fat, boarish, drunkard Baratheon King.

And now, the gods were trying to take her children from her— _Ha!_

She wasn't going to let that happen. Come hell or high water, she'd protect her cubs just like the lioness that she is. Robert is a fool if he thinks he can marry Joffrey off and she'd simply let it happen. That girl is a fool if she thinks those smiles and coy looks are fooling anyone. And Joffrey, her son, heavens-help-him, is a fool to not see her for exactly what she was. Somehow she had played the game more expertly than she'd ever seen the young maidens at the court do, catching her son's eye and holding his attention for longer than she's ever seen it held.

_He is thinking with that little worm between his legs_, she thought with a frown.

She watched them while they danced. She saw the hungry look in her son's eyes. It was the same look mirrored on her husband when he saw anything with teats. He looked at her as if he wanted to devour her. And worst still, she didn't shy away from such a look. Most girls her age would've ducked their heads and blushed, the shy maidens they were would've been ruffled by the hunger that a man can possess, but not her… Why not her? That concerned her. It concerned her more than she was willing to admit, but what angered her so, what made her see red was that that hunger was also mirrored in the girl's eyes.

_She may look like a Tully trout, but she was nothing but a Stark wolf sharpening her teeth_, the Queen considered with another gulp of wine. She lost count of how many cups she has had. No matter how much wine she drank, it hadn't seemed to quell the sick feeling coiling in her belly.

_Hasn't one wolf already ruined my life as it is? Now I'm forced to sit here and watch another sink her teeth into my son, my sweet baby boy? The fool likely thinks she hunting a little fawn, but think again, sweetling. My son is a lion. My son is a lion just like me and he'll rip you apart just as I will if you even think of—_

"Is this your first time in the North, Your Grace?" Lady Stark's voice cut through the vitriol that had been spewing from Cersei's thoughts. The Queen paused, bringing her goblet away from her mouth and smiled a saccharine smile toward the Tully clothed in the grey of the Starks, and nodded.

"Yes. Lovely country," she couldn't help her eyes drifting back to her son. He was grinning, positively beaming from ear-to-ear, as that little harlot whispered something in his ear. She didn't know what she could be saying to him, but whatever it was it made Joffrey smile and Cersei felt sick.

"I'm sure it's very grim after your time in King's Landing," Lady Stark continued unaware of the woman's inner turmoil. "I remember how scared I was when Ned brought me here for the first time."

"Your daughter is quite the beauty," Cersei remarked. "She takes after you."

Lady Stark smiled and looked out in the hall to where her daughter and the prince were dancing. Her expression softened to a look of tender affection at the sight of her. "She does in some things, but it's only the looks I'm afraid," she said. "She has my looks and Ned's patience, but everything else… Well, I have to say that's all her own."

"She's tall, still growing?"

"Yes. She's only thirteen, Your Grace?"

"And has she bled yet?"

Catelyn paused, turning her attention back to the Queen. "No... not to my knowledge, your grace."

"Ah, well, there's still time. I wasn't flowered until my thirteenth year. Your daughter will likely be expecting her first blood in the next couple moons," she said turning her eyes to look at the woman seated beside her. Lady Stark stared back unflinchingly. "I hear we might share a grandchild someday."

"I hear the same."

"Your daughter will do well in the Capitol," she said. "Such a beauty shouldn't stay hidden up here forever."

"I agree," Lady Stark turn away to look at her husband conversing with the queen's brother, Ser Jamie, in his gold-plated armor and white cloak. "I do hope my husband says yes to the betrothal and Sansa gets to go to the Capitol. She's always wanted to travel and leave Winterfell. She's become rather stagnant here in recent years. Maester Luwin keeps telling me he's finding it more and more difficult to keep her challenged academically. Perhaps the Grandmaester would have an easier time of it."

"I had heard your daughter is exceptionally intelligent." It was one of the stories boasted about from castle Winterfell all the way down south to Sunspear in Dorne.

She had heard stories for years about the beautiful daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn of House Stark. She had heard how she was blessed with hair as bright and warm as flame and eyes as blue and shining like the sea and how the Maiden had given her a voice as sweet and a song as pure as her heart. Those singers do like to exaggerate, for Cersei neither thought Sansa's hair was that vibrant a red nor were her eyes a shining sea—if anything her hair had a darker luster of auburn and her eyes were as pale and cold as the icy Wall. But from the way people talked about her, her beauty, her intellect, her talent with music, it was obvious that the girl was the jewel of the North. There was something about it that reminded Cersei how people used to speak of her when she was young, before Robert's Rebellion, before she ended up married to that fat stag and he ruined her reputation making her a laughing stock of the Seven Kingdoms.

"That's putting it rather mildly, Your Grace. She's a prodigy and keeping her interest is extraordinarily grueling. I hope you don't take offense, but the fact that your son managed to capture her attention is something I didn't expect. She's never showed much of an interest in boys. Never really cared for the songs and stories that the other young girls fancied. She's always studying, any time you see her she's almost always reading, and she'd likely prefer to live in the library if my husband and I allowed it…"

_Sounds like my little beast of a brother_, she considered spotting the dwarf hiding himself in the shadows of the hall. Cersei was glad. At least he had the presence of mind to keep to himself and not embarrass her any more than she was. If she had her way, she would've him left back in King's Landing or Lannisport with his whores but Jamie wouldn't hear of it. He insisted on having someone along who wasn't a complete dullard.

"Does she not socialize with other people?" Cersei questioned.

"No, she does," Lady Stark shook her head. "But my daughter has always preferred the company of herself to anyone else, I suppose. I think a change would be good for her. Perhaps she and Princess Mrycella can become good friends."

"Perhaps." Cersei pursed her lips as her eyes fell on gentle Myrcella and sweet Tommen. She vowed to herself that she wasn't going to let Sansa Stark anywhere near her other children.

"If it pleases Your Grace, Sansa would be happy to play a song for you and your husband tonight in honor of your arrival here. She's quite experienced with the vielle," Lady Stark began.

"Ah yes, I heard she was quite the accomplished musician too. The King and I look forward to hearing her perform for us if she were so obliged." Cersei turned her eyes back to Lady Stark's face with a smile, "You and Lord Stark must be proud to have such a daughter of so many talents."

"Oh, we are, Your Grace," Lady Stark beamed under the praise. "I have no doubt that she'll make a fine match for your son."

The Queen's smile faltered for a moment before she nodded along in agreement. A voice hissed in the back of her mind familiar words that she'd tried to forget.

_Then comes another, younger, more beautiful than you..._

She picked up her goblet again for another drink. But again the wine did nothing to squash the fear coiling in the recesses of her heart. The girl was not more beautiful than her...Not yet anyway. But she very well could be in time after she's matured. She could very well surpass her when she became a woman. She could very well make Cersei obsolete.

_I'm not going to let that happen_, she told herself. I will not lose to a child.

She told herself this again and again. Repeated the phrase like a mantra. I will not lose. I will not lose. I will not lose…

And when Lady Stark excused herself and her boorish husband returned to her side, when the great hall fell silent and that girl stood before them, put bow to instrument, and played a hymn so pure, so sweet, so exquisite in its pain and unattainable longing that it cut through her chest as if she'd been run through with a dagger, when she looked over and saw Robert with tears in his eyes as he whispered that name—that dreaded name—she felt the room sway as the ground was torn out from under her.

_Lyanna…_

Her ears rang with the sound of it.

_Lyanna…Lyanna...Lyanna—_

_NO!_ Cersei wanted to scream. She wanted to shout, to throw something, anything—she would've lept down and strangled that little wench, except her body, was frozen in fear. In her fear and rage and unparalleled horror, she realized she had made a grave miscalculation. She thought she had only need to worry about her son—

_How foolish! How unbelievably foolish! How cruel!_

The gods were too cruel. Too cruel. This went far beyond her realm of thought, far exceeding her wildest imaginations—She couldn't have known. She considered with horror as her husband's expression softened to one of joy, longing, heartbreak, hope—and dare she even think it—love?

The lines of that witch's prophecy came back to her then; mocking and biting in its intensity.

_You will be queen for a time._

_Then comes another, younger, more beautiful than you._

_To cast you down and take everything you hold dear._

The great hall filled with applause as the King bellowed his approval. Cersei didn't hear it. She couldn't hear anything over the thundering of her heart in her ears. As the girl ducked her head shyly and thanked the king for his praise, Cersei vowed to herself that she would do everything in her power to ruin the girl before her. If she had to sell her to the brothels in Lys then so be it.

The Queen would ensure that Sansa Stark would never, could never steal away her husband, her son, or her crown.

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**A/N: **It was brought to my attention that chapter 2 had been posted twice. I've since fixed the mistake, but I want to thank the reader that took the time to let me know. I appreciate it! And to the rest of you, please feel free to leave any thoughts, critiques, suggestions, or corrections in the reviews when you have them. I love feedback and it's is the only way I can improve my writing.


	11. Sansa VII

**Sansa VII  
****_What a Joke?_**

* * *

I miss many things from my past life. So many things that I keep a list in my head and I add to it every day.

Today, what I miss most is the sound of airplanes overhead. I miss sounds in general. In my old world there used to be so many sounds; car horns honking, cell phones ringing, machines whirring, lights buzzing, stereos blastings, people shouting—It used to fill the air with a cacophony of noise, turning a city into an industrial symphony. I miss the city. I miss the noise. It's so quiet here that the silence sounds like a roar in my ears. In the beginning, it used to drive me out of my mind lying in my crib staring up at the ceiling while counting the seconds until someone would come to fetch me. It's worse when it snows. A quiet hush falls over the entire keep and it feels as if death was brushing against you, nipping at your nose.

I hate snow.

I hated snow before, but now I really hate snow. I hate the cold. I hate the North. I hate this damn castle and the people in it. I loathe this world I was born into. I loathe this life, I'm forced to live with all its frivolous bullshit and self-righteous hypocrisy. I despise these damn dresses with their long skirts that I'm constantly having to keep out of the mud. I hate that in the thirteen years I've been here, I have not been able to get my hands on a single coffee bean—

I just...hate everything.

I loathe to admit this, but Terry certainly knew what it was doing when it cast me into this life. If I believed in hell, if I had sat down and pictured what my personal hell would be like, I'd imagine a life very similar to the one I was living now. I hate it all so much that I almost respect it. And I hate that more! And every day when I find something else that I just cannot stand, I find myself almost breaking out into peals of laughter because it's just… it's just...How?

How did it know I hated this? HOW?

How could it possibly have known I hated this when I didn't even know I hated this? Half of the bullshit I hate, I didn't even know I hated it before I arrived here. I'm not talking about major things. I'm not talking about societal oppression of women or the abnormally high poverty levels. I'm not even talking about the obvious things like the lack of indoor plumbing, cumbersome clothing, or largely uneducated populous. I'm talking about the little things, the general inconveniences of day-to-day life. I'm talking about how I can't even go to bed without having a chambermaid undo my corset strings, how mother has enforced morning prayers in the sept every day since I was a babe, how father has insisted on all his children keeping faith with the Old Gods in the evenings, how difficult quills are to write with, how every word out of Septa Mordane's mouth is either religious bigotry or bullshit justifications from the Seven-Pointed Star or the Holy Book of Prayers, how I have to address everyone by their proper titles, how many times I prick my fingers doing embroidery, and the overabundance of boiled beets— Jesus Christ! I fucking hate boiled beets! It feels like we have them at every goddamn meal!

Why are there always beets? And why the fuck am I always expected to eat them?

Sometimes what I want more than anything is to pick up that fucking plate of fucking beets and fling that shit across the room. But I don't. I can't. Because it wouldn't be ladylike. Because it would be unseemingly. Because it would be childish and beastly and ill-mannered. And because I fucking know better, don't I? So I eat my fucking beets like the well-bred, well-mannered, girl that I am and I don't say shit about it because that's what is expected of me.

I think that's the worst thing. The expectations. I hate having to live up to everyone's expectations. I hate that I can't just coast by. That I seem to be incapable of doing anything half-assed. That everything about me, my face, my hair, my name, my hobbies, draws constant attention to me. I hate that I cannot fade away into obscurity. If only I was uglier or my family less prominent, if only my father wasn't friends with King, if only I wasn't expected to marry a prince to become a princess to become a queen.

It's a fucking joke. I shouldn't be a future-queen. I shouldn't be in charge of the country. I don't want the responsibility that comes with a crown. And yet… I'm forcing myself to caper and charm and smile at a prince—no, a child—I have no interest in. I've somehow convinced everyone that I give a shit when I don't. What's worse is that I think I played this role too well.

King Robert's words were still ringing in my ears. Blessed by the Gods…

That's what he had said. He said I was blessed by the Gods. Blessed? Blessed?!

WHAT. A. FUCKING. JOKE.

I have no words. Or more...I have too many words. Too many thoughts. Too many emotions that I cannot verbalize any of it. Blessed...blessed…

Is that how I appeared to other people? Did I appear blessed?

I've heard people complain that I was perfect. That I was a goodie-goodie. That I always followed the rules and I never caused trouble. It was something that my siblings and Theon, particularly Theon, complained about. It's what I was often teased about. " You're too smart, Sansa," they'd say or "Why'd you always have to be so perfect?" But I wasn't perfect. I never claimed to be perfect. I don't want to be perfect. Perfection is boring and I wasn't boring even when I desperately tried to be.

Even when I try to dumb myself down, even when I purposely try to fail, to be not as good as I know I could be, it's still enough for others to consider me blessed. Why? Whywhywhywhy—

I don't know what I hated more; the devaluing of my abilities by attributing them to a bunch of fictional deities or the idea that I might've inadvertently perpetuated this delusion of god to these ignorant people. A famous philosopher once said that "God is the thought that makes crooked all that is straight" and I've found that to be true. No matter how I view this world and myself in relation to it, everyone else will still see what they wish to see, they'll still attribute my existence to some divine providence because they don't know any better. I pitied them. Really. But I also hated them for their ignorance.

I turned my face toward the night sky above me. Crone's Lantern was shining brightly, even now when the night was just beginning to give way to twilight and to dawn, I could still make out the tiny pricks of light on the horizon. Despite all my complaints, this new world did have a certain charm to it, when viewed at the precise angle at the precise time.

This was my favorite time of day, the early, early hours; long after midnight and too far from dawn. The smallfolk commonly referred to it as the Witching Hour. And, Old Nan insisted that it was the time that monsters and creeping things stole children from their beds if they weren't sleeping.

I was far too old for ghost stories. I knew the truth that it hardly mattered if you were awake or asleep, if something or someone wanted to snatch you, they would. There were things in this world that you could not protect yourself from by closing your eyes and pretending to be asleep. I had tried that already and it hadn't worked; and with every passing day, I find myself more and more awake than the day before.

I found it difficult to sleep. I don't think I've ever slept through the whole night. Not once.

And, on the nights that I could not—would not—sleep, I'd wander Winterfell's halls, its hidden corridors, its old towers, its musty crypts, and empty godswood. Often times I'd find myself in the kitchen, abandoned by the servants and cooks and silent as the grave, and during those times I've cooked myself something small—More to prove that I still knew how than out of actual hunger. It was usually a fried egg or a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich, sometimes it was a combo with a fried egg inside the sandwich. Once Robb, Theon, Jon, and I snuck down there and I baked them a simple cheese and sausage pizza to help soak up the copious amounts of strong wine in their bellies. It was the first time I have ever cooked for anyone else, and despite their frequent requests for me to make that "bread thing", it remains the only time I ever have.

Tonight, though, I did not go down to the kitchens. Nor did I go to the library tower as I so often did. No the internal walkways of the keep were far too stuffy tonight. The air inside had felt stale and musty and stifling. I wanted a moment to myself, a moment outside, with just me, myself, and I wandering the empty grounds like a lone phantom in the night.

These long walks helped me think. I reflected and analyzed and planned. In my early years, I had tried to learn as much as possible about this world in order to ascertain when or where I was. As soon as I was old enough to walk, as soon as I was clever enough to find a way out of my crib, I used to sneak up to the observatory and stare through Myrish eyes to look for any of the old constellations that I vaguely remembered; Orion, the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, Scorpius, or Cygnus…

But I never found a single one.

That confirmed a horrifying truth early on that what I was looking at was not the Milkyway Galaxy, but something, someplace else far detached from there. In the beginning, I had hoped that I had simply been thrown back into the Dark Ages, but it soon became abundantly clear that this world was never and could never have been a part of my old one. It was then that I considered there was a chance I hadn't moved through time at all, that possibly this world existed in the same time frame as my previous one, but they are separated by a vast, insurmountable distance.

Perhaps I was in a galaxy on the edges of my own universe? And that thought comforted me at first because it meant there was a chance, no matter how slim or theoretical, that I could return to my world given enough time or sufficient traveling methods. Perhaps with the invention of the man-made wormhole. Yet even in my past life, such technology hadn't been possible at the time of my death, and here it would be centuries, mellinias even, before they discovered the use of nuclear fission much less wormholes. So any vague hope I had was squashed and I resigned myself that this was the world that I was going to live and die in.

And yet, I still could not stop myself from looking at the stars; wondering if maybe, just maybe one of them was the galaxy from which I had hailed. As I stared at the Crone's Lantern, I longed for home, to that sense of certainty, of belonging, that I had lost in this new life. I used to know exactly who I was, exactly what I wanted—But now… Now there's nothing. I don't want anything from this world. I don't care about any of it. It's all meaningless to me.

What I desire is to escape this place, to return back to my time, to my life, yet I know that's impossible. What I desire is to take revenge on the thing that threw me into this hellscape, to make it suffer, to destroy it. But how do you destroy an idea? How do you make it suffer when it has no physical form?

My head hurts. I'm thinking too much.

It's cold. I didn't realize it before, but I was underdressed for the North's morning chill. I was still wearing the soft velvet dress from the feast, although I had no cape or shawl to cover my arms. The anger inside me burned hot and the exercise made it so I didn't feel the cool breeze rustling my hair. But now my anger had begun to cool and my pace had slowed almost to a standstill and I felt cold.

There was a sound. A crunch of gravel. Footsteps.

Odd. I would've thought no one would've been out at this time. Because of the feast, I knew that many were too inebriated to be awake at this hour, even the ones that were supposed to stand guard would've had a moment to snatch some drink and have their own little feast. However, it seems I was mistaken.

I turned; keeping the weight balanced on my shoulder. I may need to use it for protection. My fingers tighten around the wooden handle as I slowly rounded the corner of the castle's large stable. There was a man, no boy, young, with messy brown hair and an unkempt appearance hunched over by the wall. I would've assumed it was a squire or one of the stableboys had I not recognized the black velvet doublet with the embroidered Kraken of House Greyjoy.

Theon made a gagging sound, then retched, vomit spewing outwards at his feet. Disgusting. I dropped the weapon on my shoulder, the spade hitting the ground with an audible thump. Theon wiped his mouth and turned and saw me standing there.

"I see you're having a lovely morning," I said my voice heavy with sarcasm and Theon groaned.

"Ugh—I'm never drinking again."

"You say that every time," I leaned my weight on the shovel, tilting my head with a smirk as Theon made another disgusting retching sound. My nose wrinkled at the smell and I felt my stomach lurch a little. "You know you could do that in a place where someone wasn't bound to step on it."

"Oh, forgive me, my lady. I didn't mean to offend your delicate sensibilities." Theon glared at me from under his dark brows. His words lack much of their bite, however, and instead, the boy just sounded weary.

"Are you alright?" I asked plainly.

"Do I look alright?"

"No. You look like horseshit," I said.

Theon laughed, then groaned clutching his head. "I feel like horseshit. Ugh—my head."

"Then I suppose it's fortunate we're right by the stables, we can get a boy to muck you out," I said.

"Or perhaps you can do it yourself…" Theon's eyes landed on the shovel in my hands. "What's with the shovel?"

"I was digging—"

Theon turned back around and retched again. "Gods—"

"How much did you drink?" I wondered, setting the shovel aside to lean against the wall.

"Too much," he said.

I rolled my eyes. "Obviously. Did you sleep?"

"Aye," he pushed himself up to lean against the wall. "A little."

"In a bed?"

He smirked. "A little in a bed, a little in the hay, a little against the wall… What are you doing up so early, Sansa? And in last night's clothes? Did you and your prince run off after the feast, mmm? Naughty, naughty—I'm shocked; what would Speta say?"

I frowned. "Careful, Theon," I warned him, "You still look green. Envy doesn't suit you."

"As if I'd envy the little prick," he scoffed. "He can fuck off for all I care!"

"Shh—" I hushed him. His voice was too loud and carried too far for these early morning hours. I moved towards him, holding my hand out to him. "C'mon, let's get you inside before someone sees you."

"Aye. We wouldn't want that now, would we?" Theon allowed me to hoist him up and slung an arm around my neck, while my other wrapped around his waist to keep him steady. The weight was familiar as was the smell of bile and mulled wine that clung to him. This wasn't the first time I had had to drag my father's ward to his rooms in from the yard the morning after. I have been doing this since I was nine and Theon swiped a whole bottle of wine during the yearly harvest festival.

He sagged against me more than usual as we struggled up the stairs, his steps clumsy. He rested his head on my shoulder, his breath heavy and uneven against my neck. He was still drunk. Idiot. Perhaps that explained why his nose nuzzled against my skin like a dog smelling for scraps. We reached the top of the stairs with some difficulty, then Theon pressed closer still, his lips ghosting over my pulse with a faint brush and sigh.

"Knock it off," My warning was firm, tense, as I gritted my teeth in annoyance. "I'm not Ros and I will hit you."

He had the nerve to laugh. "So feisty… that's what I like about you—"

"Theon."

"Aye, alright, alright," he sighed. "You're so damn frigid, Sansa. I was only joking. This is why people call you the Ice Maiden."

"And where do you think they got that nickname? I seem to recall it was you who invented it after I didn't kiss you that one time," I said. Theon certainly wasn't laughing anymore once he was reminded of that unpleasant memory. When I was eight he had tried to claim my first kiss and I had responded by kneeing him right in the groin in front of Robb and Jon. The pain, I knew, was excruciating but the laughs and japes that followed from my brothers are what ensured Theon never made another pass on me again.

And fortunately for me, the memory was enough to get Theon to shut his mouth until we reached his rooms. I let his body flop uselessly against the feather bed with a groan. I was in no mood for coddling. "Where do you keep the stomach root I gave you?"

"Ugh— over there," he gestured uselessly.

"Where's there?"

"It's over there. In the wardrobe. Second drawer," he said.

I turned taking stock of the room. It was typical of a teenage boy, no matter the time period, teenage boys were messy. If it wasn't for the regular cleaning from the chambermaids, this place would very quickly fall into disarray. The signs of it were in the clutter of notes and books on his table, of the dried up inkwells, and the careless way he left his muddy boots on the floor. I walked to the wardrobe and found the glass jar of pickled ginger root as he said I would; tucked behind a poorly folded tunic. I grabbed it, then retrieved a glass of water from the basin by the window which I gave to him.

I set the water on the bedside table and uncorked the jar, holding it out to the boy. Theon was still sprawled on his back with his legs dangling off the mattress. I nudged him with my foot, "Here, eat this, then drink some water."

Theon sat up slowly and took a bit of the ginger in his mouth with a grimace. "Gods—I hate this stuff. It's too damn spicy."

"Quit your whining," I said. "If you didn't drink so much, you wouldn't have to eat it. I'm going to have the servants draw you a bath. You smell like vomit and dung."

"Aye. Don't want Lady Stark seeing me like this—"

"Don't want anyone seeing you like this," I tsked. "It's embarrassing."

Theon handed back the jar and began to sip at the water, swishing it around his mouth to dispel the taste. "Do you have anything for my head?" He asked me after I placed the ginger back inside the wardrobe.

"I'd have to go get it," I said, but made no offer to do so.

"Well, can you?" He pleaded.

"I can. But why should I?"

"Sansa, please—" He winced at his own voice. "It hurts."

I shrugged. "Then let that be a lesson in moderation," I told him. Just because he was stupid enough to get a hangover doesn't mean I'm obligated to play healer every time. It was heartless, perhaps, but I had long since lost any sympathy for this dumbass.

"Bitch," he swore under his breath.

I crossed my arms and arched my brows. "What was that? I didn't quite catch it," I said.

Theon sighed. "I said please, Sansa, please help me and I'll be forever grateful," he stressed.

"That's what I thought you said," I nodded turning on my heels and heading for the door.

"Wait!" Theon called out and I paused at the handle, "Where are you going?"

"I told you. I'm going to have the servants draw you a bath," I said. "And I'll get you that potion for your head."

Theon smiled. "Will you?"

I nodded. "Just don't let me find you like this again or a headache will be the least of your worries."

"Thanks." I moved to pull open the door, however, Theon called out to me again, "Sansa—"

"What?" I turned back to him, annoyance rising before his drawn pensive brows made me pause. "What is it?"

Theon stared back at me, unblinking. His face lost some of its youthfulness and for a moment he looked far too serious. "I heard that you're going to be betrothed soon, is it true?"

"An offer has been made, but nothing has been decided upon," I told him.

He hummed and looked down at the furs he was sitting on. "Do you like him?"

"I've only just met him."

Theon shook his head and looked up at me again. "But do you like him?"

What do I say? What could I possibly say? I don't like anyone. I never have. "He's…" I cut off and started again. "It doesn't have any relevance. Whether I like him or not, my father will decide what he will decide."

A wry smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. "That's what I thought you'd say." Theon became serious again. "I heard he's a prick."

"So are you," I said.

"Aye," he chuckled, "But you deserve better."

I shifted uncomfortably. I didn't like the way he was looking at me. It was almost sad, wistful perhaps? I felt exposed by such a look. "Perhaps… But what I deserve doesn't have any bearing on the decision, does it?"

Theon's expression hardened, "It does."

"I don't see how. He's a prince, a future-king, and my father's only a lord. If the king wants this betrothal, my father cannot refuse him," I said my voice strangely level despite the anxiety I felt toward the topic.

"And you'll be queen someday," he remarked.

"And I'll be queen someday," I agreed.

"Is that what you want?"

No. "Yes."

Theon looked down at his lap. "I see. Well, congratulations, I suppose," he lifted his glass in my direction in a toast. "To the future-queen, long may you reign." He laughed then, grinning at me, and it felt like I was punched in the gut. "You're too serious, Sansa! You keep frowning like that, you're going to get wrinkles."

I snorted. "Good. Old people get to say whatever they damn well please," I said and Theon laughed harder. "I'll slip you that potion at breakfast," I told him before I turned and stepped through the door. I couldn't get out of that room fast enough.

Theon's laughter rang in my ears. It followed me down the hall. I could feel its presence settling on my shoulders, pressing me down. I tried to shake it off. But it was too heavy.

That's right. Keep laughing. My life is a fucking joke, isn't it?

* * *

_**A/N: **_I've been reworking my outline to adjust to the changes Sansa's change in character would bring. I'm adding a lot more chapters to the Winterfell arch. One of the major changes will be including more scenes with Sansa and her siblings. This scene was to shed a little more light on Theon and Sansa's dynamic. In the next, I plan to focus more on Arya and Robb. Thank you for all the reviews, follows, and favorites! Feel free to leave any critiques, corrections, suggestions, or thoughts in the reviews.


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